


Come Back to Me, John

by GobletCharm74



Category: Sherlock (TV), Somewhere in Time (1980)
Genre: (1912 is idealized), Actor!Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Historical, Big Brother Mycroft, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, But it gets very happy first!, Child Abuse, Depression, Doctor Who References, First Kiss, First Time, Heartbreak, John is confident, Loss of Virginity, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Homophobia/Heteronormativity (1980), Murder Mystery, Nervous Sherlock, No Period-Typical Homophobia (1912), Nods to Mystrade, Overprotective Mycroft, Pining John, References to Drugs, Sad Ending, Sherlock blushes a lot, Suicide, Time Travel, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, smol sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:17:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 28,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GobletCharm74/pseuds/GobletCharm74
Summary: While visiting the Baker Street Hotel, John comes across an old portrait of a beautiful young man. He soon falls in love with the image and learns to travel back in time so he can meet him. A Johnlock/Somewhere in Time crossover





	1. Come Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking on my first-ever fic! I've been working on this story for the past 2.5 years, and I'm finally ready to share it. But first, a few notes:
> 
> 1\. This fic roughly follows the plot of the movie "Somewhere in Time", but with "Sherlock" characters. I own neither "Somewhere in Time" nor "Sherlock."
> 
> 2\. This fic has a sad ending. At the time I started it, I thought our boys were getting their happy ending in canon, so I wasn't worried about writing a fic with a sad ending. Even after S4, I still thought it was important to remain faithful to "Somewhere in Time", but I understand if anyone doesn't want to read it in light of what happened. HOWEVER, it gets very, very happy before it suddenly takes a turn for the worse very close to the end, so I hope you'll still give it a chance. You can stop reading before it gets sad (I'll warn you when to stop) if you want to leave it on a happy note.
> 
> 3\. None of this would have been possible without the advice, encouragement, and feedback of my wonderful beta (and sister), @ktlee. Thank you, Katie <3
> 
> 4\. I'm American, and this isn't brit-picked. I did my best to get all the terminology right, but it's very possible that there are mistakes. Feel free to point them out if you see them, and if anyone wants to brit-pick future chapters, I'd be happy for the offer.
> 
> 5\. Because this fic is finished, I intend to keep to a schedule of a chapter every week, barring any unforeseen disasters or loss of internet. In general, I'm planning on posting on Thursdays.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading all those notes (future chapters shouldn't have so many). I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

1972

John moved about the backyard of his parents’ home, joking with his mates, hugging extended family, and shaking the hands of family friends that his parents had insisted on inviting to his graduation party. It was mingling to the extreme, and it was exhausting.

“John!” A cousin whose name John couldn’t remember approached him. “A university graduate! I can hardly believe it. It seems just yesterday you were only this tall!” She held her hand at waist height, and John barely suppressed an eye roll. “But how pleased you must be, to be finished!”

“Actually, I’m not,” he informed her. “Far from it. I’ve still got many years of med school ahead of me.” John didn’t even know why his parents had insisted on throwing him a party, when his real graduation, the one that mattered, that meant that he was finally a doctor, was years away. He couldn’t wait to become a doctor…

“So I was talking to your girlfriend, Sarah, is it?” John realized the woman was still talking to him. “She seems like a very nice girl. When can we expect a happy announcement from you two?”

Much to John’s relief, at that moment he was whisked away by his friend Mike Stamford. He and Mike had attended university together, and they would both be studying medicine at St. Bart’s the coming fall.

“Hey mate, groovy party,” Mike teased, looking around at the mostly middle-aged crowd.

John finally let out the eye roll he had been holding in. “Yeah, I know it’s a little lame. But hey, we could always go out tonight and have our own celebration.”

“Yeah, that’d be great!” Mike grinned. “But we won’t be able to start until late. It’s Doctor Who tonight!”

John shook his head. “You and your obsession with that show. You know that time travel isn’t real, right?”

Mike playfully flipped him off. “Just you wait, John. One day, I’ll discover the secret to time travel and build my own Tardis. Then won’t you be jealous! You’ll be begging me to teach you my secret!”

John laughed. “If you say so.”

Before long, Sarah came and asked John to get her a drink. (“Your sister’s by the drinks, and she always hits on me when she’s drunk. I’d rather keep my distance.”) John obliged, and soon he found himself back at the centre of the party, with everyone wanting to talk to him. He had just finished speaking with a friend of his father’s, and was turning away to seek out Mike again, when he found himself face-to-face with an elderly man. The man was tall, and very thin; his thinness combined with his old age made him look like a breath of air could knock him over. He wore a long navy-blue coat over a black suit, and on his head was, of all things, a deerstalker. Poking out from underneath the deerstalker, John could see grey curls, still thick despite the man’s age. John had never seen him before.

The man reached out a shaking hand, and John could see that he held an old-fashioned pipe. He grabbed John’s hand and pressed the pipe into it, closing his fingers around it. Then he bent down so his mouth was close to John’s ear and breathed, “Come back to me,” before turning around and walking off, leaving John staring at the pipe, completely bewildered.

* * *

Half an hour later, a cab pulled up in front of a grand building on the other side of London. A sign outside the building read: Baker Street Hotel, Established 1887. In the back of the cab, the old man from John’s party wiped tears from his face and formed his features into an emotionless mask, before paying the cabbie, exiting the cab, and entering the hotel. When he reached his hotel suite, a moustachioed man met him at the door. “Did you have a nice afternoon?” he asked, only to be ignored by the old man, who removed his coat, went into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind him. Once alone, the old man allowed his sorrow to overtake his expression once more, and his whole body slumped in defeat. He picked up an old violin and cradled it lovingly in his frail arms, before lifting it to his chin and drawing the bow smoothly across the strings, pulling out a beautiful, sad melody that brought tears to his eyes once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'll be back next week with the next chapter!


	2. Baker Street Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the next chapter!

Eight Years Later

John sat in his examining room at the medical clinic he had been working at since finishing medical school. He was bored. John had dreamed of being a doctor all his life, but now that he was actually working in a clinic, it seemed like he couldn’t have chosen a more mundane career path. He had just finished with a patient (Mr Summerson, undescended testicle), and he was hoping for a bit of a break before he had to see another uninteresting patient. John turned on his record player, and his favourite song – a beautiful, sad melody – filled the room. He let out a sigh and considered calling Mary, his girlfriend. _Ex-girlfriend, now_ , John reminded himself, putting the phone down without placing the call.

A secretary stuck her head in the room. “Mrs Reeves, thrush,” she announced, and John made an impulsive decision.

“I can’t see her,” he declared, switching off the record player and grabbing his coat. “Or anyone else for several days at least. I’m going on a trip.”

“What? A trip? Where?” The secretary looked alarmed. “And what will I tell all the patients who are waiting to see you?”

“Just tell them they’ll have to come back another day!” John exclaimed. “I don’t care anymore! I need a break!”

“Ok, fine.” The secretary offered him a placating smile. “Is Mary going with you?”

“No, I don’t think so. We broke up.” And with that, John walked out of the clinic.

* * *

 John got on the tube and rode for a while. He really had no idea where he was going; he just knew that he had to get away. Eventually, he chose a station at random, got off the train, and started walking, carrying the two bags he had packed after rushing home from the clinic to prepare for his impromptu trip.

As John walked, he realized that he had come to a very nice part of London, an area he hadn’t been to since his time at St. Bart’s. He was soon lost in thought, reminiscing about his years in medical school and his then best friend, Mike Stamford, whom he had since lost contact with, so at first he didn’t notice when he passed the hotel. However, the growing ache in his arms from carrying his bags for so long quickly called him back to reality, and he did double take at the sign he had just passed: Baker Street Hotel, Established 1887. John glanced at the beautiful hotel in front of him, which seemed to back onto Regent’s Park, and promptly decided that this was the place where he would spend his vacation.

Inside the hotel, John checked into a room and, at the clerk’s request, signed the guest book. “Mrs Hudson will show you to your room,” the clerk informed him, and John turned to see a small, kind-looking old woman gathering up his bags.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, seeing that she didn’t appear to be very strong. “I can carry my own bags.”

Mrs Hudson gave him a grateful smile. “Oh, thank you, dear. It does get rather difficult carrying bags all day. I’ve got a hip.” She patted her hip for emphasis, before leading John to the elevator.

“So if it’s so difficult for you, why do you work here, if you don’t mind my asking?” John asked her once they were in the elevator.

Mrs Hudson smiled and gave a little shrug. “I guess I just can’t imagine ever leaving. I’ve been here nearly my entire life.”

“That long?” John asked, before realizing that had sounded rude. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply –”

“It’s perfectly all right, dear,” Mrs Hudson cut him off. “No offense taken. And you’re right; it has been a long time. I first came to the hotel with my father in 1910, when he got a job here as a desk clerk. I was five years old. After my father was executed –” ( _Executed?_ John decided not to ask) “– the hotel manager basically raised me. I started working here after I finished school and I’ve been here ever since.”

“You didn’t leave when you got married, then?” John asked.

“No, I continued working here even then.” Mrs Hudson made a face. “That was almost as much of an area of contention between my husband and I as my keeping my name. I go by ‘Mrs’, but Hudson is my maiden name.”

They had reached John’s room by this time, and Mrs Hudson showed him in. “What do you think, then?” she asked him.

“This could be very nice,” John replied, looking around the room approvingly. “Very nice indeed.” It was perhaps a bit stark – plain white walls, dark blue carpet, little decoration beyond the dark floral curtains – but the bed looked comfortable enough, and there was a telly in the corner. It would meet John’s needs just fine.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to get settled in. If you need anything, you can find me in the bungalow in back of the hotel.” Mrs Hudson started to leave the room, but then paused and turned back to John. “Have we met before?”

The unexpected question startled John. “Have we…no, I don’t think so.”

“No, I’m sure we haven’t. Just my silly old brain playing tricks on me.” Mrs Hudson laughed. “Enjoy your stay, Dr Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. The Picture of Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm busy tomorrow, so I'm posting early this week. Many thanks to those who left comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy the next chapter! The title is, of course, a tribute to Oscar Wilde.

That evening, John headed down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. However, upon arriving he was disappointed to see that the restaurant still appeared to be closed. He was even more disappointed when the restaurant manager informed him that they wouldn’t be open for another 40 minutes; his stomach growled in protest. _Oh well_ , thought John. _I guess I’ll just have to find something to do to pass the time._

John wandered aimlessly around the ground floor of the hotel until he came upon a room with a sign over the door reading “Hall of History” in fancy gold letters. _Looks interesting enough_ , John thought. He checked his watch; there was still more than a half-an-hour left until the restaurant would open. He might as well check it out.

John entered the room and found himself in a sort of museum exhibit displaying the history of the hotel. He looked at the objects in the display cases with mild interest, until a funny, tingly feeling came over him. He almost felt like someone was watching him, except instead of feeling wary, he felt intrigued. Slowly, John turned around to discover what it was behind him that was giving him this strange feeling. What he saw took his breath away.

On the wall was a photograph of a young man. John found himself drawn to it, and without quite realizing what was happening, he crossed the room, needing to be closer to the portrait. As he got closer, his face lit up in a smile.

The young man was the most beautiful person John had ever seen. His face was long, pale and angular, with cheekbones so high it should have been illegal. Beneath a fringe of thick, dark, curly hair lay a pair of gorgeous eyes that seemed to look out of the picture and straight into John’s soul (it was an oddly exposing feeling, but John found that he didn’t actually mind it). The young man’s Cupid’s bow lips were turned up slightly in an almost-smile that could only be described as loving. John felt a sudden pang of jealousy for whoever had been on the receiving end of that smile. And suddenly he knew – this was what the poets wrote about; this was love at first sight. John looked beneath the portrait for a nameplate, or anything that would give him some clue as to who the perfect young man was, but the label was missing.

* * *

John found Mrs Hudson on the back porch of the hotel, tending to some flowers. She looked up with a smile as he approached. “Can I help you, dear?”

“Yeah, I was wondering, you know in the Hall of History, there’s a photograph of a young man? There’s no name plate.”

Mrs Hudson smiled fondly. “That’s Sherlock Holmes. He was a famous actor in his day, starred in a play at the hotel theatre we used to have in the park, before the open air theatre opened and put the hotel theatre out of business.” A reminiscent look came into her eyes. “Solved a murder here too, while he was at it.”

“A murder?!” John spluttered. He had not been expecting that.

Mrs Hudson laughed. “I wouldn’t worry yourself, dear. It’s been many years since anything that exciting has happened here. I highly doubt you’ll have any murders to solve during your stay.” She patted him on the arm.

That wasn’t as reassuring as Mrs Hudson seemed to think it was. If the murder had happened “many years” ago, how old was Sherlock Holmes now? “So when did this all happen?” John asked.

Mrs Hudson’s reply of “1912” hit John like a blow to the stomach. 1912? So assuming the picture was taken around that time, Sherlock Holmes would be an old man by now. If he was even still alive…

* * *

His hunger now long forgotten, John found himself becoming increasingly obsessed with the image of Sherlock Holmes. He stood in the Hall of History, staring at the photograph, completely entranced. He tried to distract himself by going to dinner, but found that his mind kept returning to the beautiful young man.

That night, John couldn’t sleep, his obsession refusing to let his mind shut down. He tossed and turned until finally he gave up and returned to the Hall of History, where he stared with increasing agitation at the photograph. He was starting to get a little angry now. How dare Sherlock Holmes keep him from sleeping, with his perfect hair and his perfect eyes and his goddam perfect cheekbones?! _I’ll just have to forget about him_ , John decided. _No use pining over someone who lived nearly 70 years ago._

Easier said than done. John returned to his room, but he still couldn’t sleep. Fucking Sherlock Holmes refused to leave him alone! He wanted to meet him, talk to him, learn everything about him. This was getting ridiculous. John had to do something about this insane longing, but what? Finally giving up on the idea of sleeping entirely, John sat up in bed and spent the rest of the night wondering about the young man whose image he had fallen in love with.

* * *

The next morning, John returned to the Hall of History once more. Sherlock Holmes’ intelligent-looking eyes stared out at him from the portrait. “The way you look at me, it makes me feel like you know everything about me,” John told him, not caring that he probably would seem crazy if anyone saw him talking to a photograph. “I want to know everything about you, too.” And suddenly, John knew what to do.

He ran into the foyer, where Mrs Hudson was just bringing down his bags (he was supposed to be checking out that morning). “Mrs Hudson!” John skidded up to her. “I’m so sorry, but could you actually put my bags back in my room?”

“Yes, dear, what –“ Mrs Hudson started to ask, but John interrupted her.

“Thanks so much, Mrs Hudson! And could you tell me where the nearest library is?”

“Tate Library in the park is the closest one,” Mrs Hudson replied, looking bewildered.

“Ok, great, ta!” John turned and sprinted towards the back doors of the hotel, leaving Mrs Hudson shaking her head in amusement.

* * *

In the library, John started with the encyclopaedias, searching for an article on Sherlock Holmes. Finally, he found one. _One of the most revered actors of the early 20 th century_, John read, _for many years he was the theatre’s greatest box office draw. Under the guidance of his brother and manager, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes created a mystique in the public’s eye._ Intrigued, John read on. _He was never seen in public in his later years, apparently without an offstage life, the absolute quintessence of seclusion._

John had to learn more. He found a librarian and asked her if the library had any theatre biographies, giving her a winning smile that convinced her to go search for the theatre magazines they apparently had in the back. She brought him a stack of several magazines, and John sifted through them, looking for anything relating to Sherlock Holmes. His heart sped up when his eye caught the title of one of the articles in the last magazine: Sherlock Holmes: The Final Years. He flipped to the page the article was on, and what he saw shocked him: staring out at him was a picture of the old man who had given him the pipe eight years previously! _Holy shit_ , John thought. _What does this mean?_ Sherlock Holmes had acted as if he had known John. He had said, “Come back to me.” It had made no sense to John at the time, and it still didn’t make much sense to him now. But somehow, in some crazy, convoluted way that John didn’t understand, he and Sherlock Holmes were irrevocably connected, and had been long before John fell in love with his portrait. “ _Come back to me_.”

John’s heart sank as he looked at the caption below the picture. _Sherlock Holmes_ , it read. _This was the last photograph taken of him._ Eight years ago, Sherlock Holmes had asked John Watson to come back to him, and now John was too late. Now Sherlock Holmes was dead.

* * *

Still, John had to learn more about him. He continued searching the library for information when he struck gold: someone had written a biography of Sherlock Holmes! John checked out the book and headed back to the hotel, where he devoured the biography in one night. However, upon finishing the book around 2 am, John still felt dissatisfied. He read the author’s note; apparently, the author – someone named Arthur Conan Doyle – had known Sherlock Holmes. And yet he hadn’t actually written that many intimate details about him. It was as if he were holding back information. Well, that just wouldn’t do. John pulled the phone book out of his bedside table and looked up Arthur Conan Doyle’s address, deciding to visit him in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'll be back next week, when we meet ACD himself :)


	4. A Haunting Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! The portrayal of Arthur Conan Doyle in this chapter is based on my imagination and does not necessarily reflect what he was like. Also, I borrowed this chapter title directly from the scene selection on the Somewhere in Time DVD, so credit for that goes to Universal Pictures. 
> 
> Thanks again to those who have left comments and kudos! Enjoy!

It was raining as John reached Arthur Conan Doyle’s house the next morning. He hurried under the shelter of the house’s porch, then hesitated only briefly before knocking. He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened to reveal an older man with an impressive moustache.

“Hi, are you Mr Doyle?” John asked.

“Yes,” the man replied, seeming a little wary.

“Hi, my name is John Watson.” John offered his hand for a handshake. “I just read your biography on Sherlock Holmes and I really enjoyed it.”

Doyle groaned. “Not another Sherlock Holmes enthusiast! Let me guess, you want more information on him?”

John nodded eagerly, eliciting a sigh from Doyle. “I should never have written that biography in the first place,” he muttered, and then said more loudly, “I’m sorry, I don’t wish to speak about Holmes today, or any day for that matter. You’ll have to go.” He started to close the door.

“Wait, please!” In desperation, John pushed the door back open. “Please, I’m not just any enthusiast. This is something much more personal.”

“What do you mean?” Doyle looked at him quizzically.

Hoping it would have the desired effect, John pulled Sherlock Holmes’ pipe out of his pocket and showed it to Doyle. He was not disappointed. “Where did you get that?” Doyle asked, sounding shocked.

“He gave it to me,” John explained. “He showed up at a party at my parents’ house eight years ago and just handed it to me.”

Doyle shook his head in confusion. “That pipe was very precious to him. He never left it out of his possession.” He looked at John calculatingly. “It disappeared the night he died.”

“He died that night?!” John’s shock must have been evident in his voice, because Doyle finally seemed to believe him. He opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”

* * *

Doyle led John to a storage room. “I have a lot of his possessions. He was the last in his family and had no real friends, so I was the only one he had to leave anything to.”

John stepped into the room, his heart pounding in excitement and anticipation. The first thing he noticed was a long navy-blue coat hanging on a peg on the wall – the coat Sherlock Holmes had been wearing at John’s graduation party. John walked over to it, barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch the thick material. “That was his favourite coat,” Doyle informed him.

John turned to the author now stood beside him. “Mr Doyle, what was he like?”

Doyle smiled almost sadly. “When I knew him, he was rude and anti-social, and very withdrawn. He often looked sad when he thought no one could see him. Otherwise, he tended to keep his emotions hidden, but I could tell he was unhappy.”

John felt a physical pain in his chest at the thought of Sherlock Holmes being so unhappy. “But he wasn’t always that way, was he?”

“No.” Doyle shook his head. “People who knew him when he was young said he was bright and quick-witted, a genius even, petulant, fiery-tempered and rebellious, always full of energy and life. I’m afraid he always was a bit rude, though.”

John smirked. Now that description better fit the Sherlock Holmes he felt he was beginning to know! “Why did he change?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Doyle admitted, “but the change seems to have occurred around 1912, after he starred in a play, and solved a murder, at the Baker Street Hotel. He fell into a depression and started taking cocaine. Apparently he was found high for the first time before even leaving the hotel, although I don’t know how he managed to find illegal cocaine there.”

John was shocked to learn that his beloved Sherlock Holmes had been a drug addict, and he couldn’t understand why the events at the hotel would have had such an effect on him. Shrugging, he turned to look at a row of photographs on a shelf: Sherlock Holmes grinning mischievously at the camera; Sherlock Holmes playing the violin, his face a picture of pure bliss; Sherlock Holmes as a child, sitting on the lap of a teenage boy. John’s gaze fell next on a picture of a man who looked very like the teenage boy from the previous photograph. “That was his brother, Mycroft Holmes,” Doyle informed him.

“Was he really as, I don’t know, controlling as you seem to indicate in the book?” John asked.

Doyle’s cryptic reply was, “They certainly had a difficult relationship.”

“What, sibling rivalry?” John laughed, but when Doyle didn’t seem to find it as amusing as he did, he looked around the room awkwardly. That was when he noticed a familiar name on the spine of a book sat on a bookshelf in the corner. “Oh wow.” John walked over to the bookshelf. “May I?” he asked, indicating the book, and after Doyle nodded his assent, John picked up the book. “This was written by one of my best mates from uni and med school, Mike Stamford. We’ve unfortunately lost touch since; I didn’t know he had written a book!”

Doyle smiled. “I actually just recently bought that book. Holmes read every book he could find about time travel, and I got so used to buying them for him whenever I saw them that when I saw this one in the shop, I bought it without thinking. I didn’t know what else to do with it so I put it in here with his other books.”

John turned the book over to see the title: _Travels Through Time_. He smiled to himself as he remembered Mike and his Whovian fixation on time travel. But why would Sherlock Holmes be interested in time travel? He didn’t seem the science fiction type.

John looked up to ask Doyle for an explanation, but before he could open his mouth, he noticed a beautiful violin lying on a table next to a record player. Book temporarily forgotten, he knelt in front of the table and stared in awe at the beautiful instrument.

“His violin,” Doyle said, coming to stand beside John. “It was one of his most prized possessions.”

“It’s beautiful,” John breathed. _Just like him_ , he thought.

“He played it beautifully, too.” Doyle pulled a record out from a draw in the table. “Would you like to hear?”

John could only nod, his throat suddenly tight at the prospect of getting to actually hear Sherlock Holmes play the violin. It was more than he could possibly have hoped for.

“This was the only piece of music he ever recorded.” Doyle placed the record on the record player and started the music.

As a beautiful, sad melody filled the small room, John felt goose bumps rise on his skin, and not just because he was listening to Sherlock Holmes play the violin. “That’s my favourite music in the whole world,” he told Doyle, shocked. Why did everything about Sherlock Holmes end up relating back to him? What was their connection? John hadn’t understood back at the library when he had first discovered who Sherlock Holmes was. He had come here seeking answers, but now he still didn’t understand. But he felt that he was getting closer. Something in the back of his mind kept niggling at him, as if the answer was staring him in the face but he hadn’t noticed it yet. And then suddenly it clicked. Time travel! What if…? But that simply wasn’t possible. And yet it was his only chance. He had to talk to Mike Stamford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Mike have the answer John is looking for? Find out next week!


	5. Mike Stamford's Tardis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter, a day early because I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow! The chapter title is a Doctor Who reference, because Mike Stamford and I are both nerds. Thanks as always to everyone leaving kudos and comments and to Katie for her beta work.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

John found Mike at St. Bart’s, where, according to the inside book jacket of _Travels Through Time_ , he was apparently teaching now. He knocked on Mike’s office door, and was soon greeted by the smiling face of his former best mate. “John? John Watson? Long time no see!”

“Mike, it’s been too long.” John offered his hand for a shake, which Mike eagerly took, before inviting John into his office.

“So, you’re teaching now,” John said, once they were both comfortably seated with cups of tea.

“Yeah. Bright young things like we used to be.” He chuckled. “God, I hate them.”

John laughed, then said, trying to sound casual, “Speaking of when we were bright young things, I heard you finally built that Tardis you were always talking about.”

Mike grinned. “Yup! I did it, Johnny! I’ve discovered the secret to time travel! I’m basically a Time Lord now.”

“Well, _Doctor_ ,” John hoped that would butter him up. “How would you like to let me in on your secret?”

“Ah ha! I knew it!” Mike pointed an accusatory finger at John, but his eyes were twinkling. “You were always ridiculing me, saying it was just a dumb show, and now you want in on the secret. Well, well.”

“Come on, Mike, don’t be like that.” John held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry I made fun of your show, ok? But now something has come up and I really need to learn how to travel in time, so could you please help me?”

Mike looked at him quizzically. “Why do you need to learn how to travel in time?”

John sighed. “It sounds crazy, you probably wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

Mike looked John straight in the eyes. “John, I’m a science fiction geek. Literally nothing will sound crazy to me.”

“If you insist…” John took a breath. “Ok, I’m in love.”

Mike snorted. “Heard that one before.”

John shook his head. “No, it’s not like those times back in uni and med school. It’s real this time. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Except…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain his predicament without sounding completely insane.

“Except?” Mike prompted.

John took a deep breath, deciding to just be completely honest. Mike was his friend, after all. “I first fell in love with a photograph of him (yes, he’s a bloke, don’t look so surprised). Then as I learned more about him I fell even more in love, but the problem is, he lived like 70 years ago. So I have to go back in time so I can meet him.”

Mike stared at him for a few moments, mouth agape. Finally, he spoke. “You’re right, it does sound crazy.”

“Please, Mike,” John practically begged.

Mike studied John for a moment, before seeming to make up his mind. “Ok,” he said, setting down his teacup. “Listen carefully.” And he began with his tale: “I was in Venice a couple years ago, staying in a very old hotel. I mean, very old. The structure, the furnishings, everything; the whole atmosphere was aged. In my room, it felt like it was a century or more earlier.”

“So the location is important?” John interrupted.

“Essential,” Mike replied. “But the rest is in here.” He pointed at his head, then continued, “One afternoon I was lying in that room, and all the sights around me seemed like they belonged to the past, even the sounds I heard, too. And I got an idea: what if I attempt to hypnotize my mind, suggest to it that it is actually the 16th century? I closed my eyes and started telling myself, ‘It’s 1578, I’m in the hotel De Vecchio.’ I spelled out all the details for myself and did it again and again.”

John felt his pulse picking up speed. “And?” he prompted.

Mike looked at him and shook his head, causing John’s heart to sink. “I’ll never really know. I’ve never done it since, and I’m not sure I would want to. I felt completely knackered afterwards. And remember, if I was there, it was only for a fraction of an instant.” Mike snapped his fingers for emphasis.

“Yes,” John said, his hopes rising again. “But you were there.”

Mike gave him a long look. “I thought so,” he finally replied. “It was definitely imperfect. There were objects around me from the present, and I knew they were there.” John’s mind was racing. Mike continued, “If I were going to try again, hypothetically speaking, I would disassociate myself entirely from the present, move everything out of sight that could possibly remind me of it. And then, who knows?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! More to come next week!


	6. Hindrance and Hypnosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

With a growing sense of excitement, John made his preparations. He found a vintage clothing store and bought a suit that the clerk assured him was in style in 1912. He gave himself a haircut, using old photographs for comparison as he styled his hair the way it was worn then. Looking at his reflection, with his new suit and his new haircut, John couldn’t resist the temptation to practice what he would say to Sherlock Holmes when he finally met him. John tipped his hat at his reflection and said, using the cocky voice he usually used when picking up women, “Good evening, Mr Holmes. You don’t know me, but you will.” John paused. That had sounded stupid. Had that voice always sounded stupid? Perhaps it was simply that Sherlock Holmes was too good for the “pick-up line voice.” John tried again, this time going for sincere. “Good evening, Mr Holmes. You don’t know me…but you will.” Was that any better? Maybe a little bit? _It will have to do for now_ , John decided. There was work to do.

John sat down at his hotel room desk, where earlier he had left a tape recorder he had bought. He picked up the microphone, pressed “record,” and began to speak: “It is the 27th of June, 1912. You are lying on your bed in the Baker Street Hotel, and it is 6 PM on the 27th of June, 1912. Your mind accepts this absolutely. It _is_ the 27th of June, 1912.” John continued to spell out all the details for himself, as Mike had advised. “Sherlock Holmes is in this hotel at this very moment. His manager, Mycroft Holmes, is in this hotel at this very moment. The stage is being set for their performance tomorrow night.”

John continued to speak for a long time. Finally, he stopped, rewound the tape, and pushed “play.” As his own voice began to speak to him, he finished his preparations to go back in time, moving everything out of sight that could possibly remind him of the present. He started to fill the pockets of his suit with coins, when suddenly he remembered the dates. They were dated from after 1912; they would have to go. John pulled the handful of coins back out of his pocket and dumped them in the closet with his other modern things. John filled his pockets with a few other useful things, like a handkerchief and a straight razor. Then, for a prop, John stuck Sherlock Holmes’ pipe in his jacket pocket, adding some matches as well to make it more believable.

Finally, he was ready. He laid down on his bed next to the tape player and tried to relax, as his own voice washed over him, continually saying that it was the 27th of June, 1912, that Sherlock Holmes was in the hotel with him at that very moment, that soon he would go downstairs and find him, that his mind accepted this, that he had gone back in time, that it had to happen. John lay there for a long time. When nothing happened he got up and started to pace as his voice on the tape player continued to try to no avail to convince him that it was in fact 1912. The longer John remained in 1980, the more agitated and frustrated he became. “Why the hell aren’t you working?!” John angrily yelled at the tape player, not caring how ridiculous it was to row with a machine. In desperation, John lay back down and started murmuring to himself even as the tape continued to play, trying everything he could think of to hypnotize his mind. It was all to no avail. “Damn it!” John finally yelled, violently switching off the tape player and storming out of the room.

* * *

After walking aimlessly around the hotel for a bit in an effort to calm himself down, John went back to the Hall of History. He stood in front of Sherlock Holmes’ portrait for a long time, staring at it longingly. Eventually, a couple entered the room, and John, not wanting to seem suspicious by spending too much time looking at the portrait, moved away from it and feigned interest in the items in one of the display cases. That was when he noticed the words on the cover of the large, leather book laying inside the case: “Guest Registration.” A guest registration book! Of course! The hotel had every guest sign the registration book, so, if John had been there in 1912, his name would be in the 1912 book! But where was that book now? _Mrs Hudson would know_ , John thought, and rushed from the room.

He ran through the hotel, out the back door, and down the porch stairs, then made his way across the back garden to Mrs Hudson’s bungalow. He pounded on the door and windows, making as much racket as possible. “Mrs Hudson! MRS HUDSON!” he called repeatedly. “Wake up!”

Finally, she opened the door, tying the sash of a dressing gown and looking still half asleep. She looked up at him in bleary-eyed confusion, seemingly too tired to even notice the vintage suit John was still wearing. “Is something the matter, dear?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“Mrs Hudson, I’m really sorry to wake you up,” John started, breathing heavily. “But you’re the only one who can help me. You know the things in the display cases in the Hall of History? Where do they come from?”

Mrs Hudson blinked the sleep out of her eyes, before finally replying, “The attic, Dr Watson. Are you sure everything’s okay, dear?”

“Everything’s great now, thanks!” John turned and sprinted back in the direction of the hotel, leaving Mrs Hudson shaking her head and tutting after him.

* * *

John returned to his room just long enough to grab a torch and change his clothes, in case it was dirty in the attic, and then he rode the elevator to the top floor. From there, he wandered around until he found a door labelled “attic,” which was mercifully unlocked, and climbed the staircase behind it.

The attic was dusty, and filled with cobwebs and old things. Nevertheless, it didn’t take John too long to find the box of guest registration books. John sifted through them until he found the book labelled “1912,” then, with a growing feeling of anticipation, he skimmed through that book, looking for the 27th of June. He quickly found the correct date, and then skimmed over the names listed on that page until he found the name “Sherlock Holmes” written in an endearingly childish handwriting. Under Sherlock Holmes’ signature, the name “Mycroft Holmes” was written in perfect script. John noted that they had signed into rooms 221B and 221A, respectively.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his heart speeding up in his chest, before turning the page. He opened his eyes tentatively, and his breath caught in his throat as he recognized his own handwriting. There was his name! He had apparently signed into room 416 at 9:18 AM on 28 June 1912. _I was there!_ John thought, feeling elated. _I was there!_

* * *

Back in his room, John changed back into his suit and lay back down on the bed. He started the tape player, and then paused, staring at the machine in his hands. _I’m an idiot_ , he thought. _Of course it didn’t work when I was lying next to a modern tape player the whole time!_ John switched the tape player back off and hid it under his bed, before lying back down and beginning once again to murmur to himself. He spoke with renewed confidence about room 416, about checking in tomorrow morning at 9:18, and about Sherlock Holmes already being in the hotel. This time he knew that it had to happen. He had seen the evidence; he knew that he was there. John continued to murmur to himself until he eventually fell asleep, his mind still full of 1912 and Sherlock Holmes. As he slept, a contented smile took over his features, as if his subconscious already knew that he had succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to leave you in suspense, but I'll be away all next week on a trip for my grad program, so I won't be able to update until Sunday (or Saturday evening, depending on how late we get back). So for now, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll be back with more next weekend.


	7. 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait for this one! I was in Montreal (which I highly recommend; their gay neighborhood is very cool). This chapter is dedicated to any Mystrade fans who are reading. Also to any Potter fans, see if you can spot the Half-Blood Prince reference! 
> 
> Enjoy!

John slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, but as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, the room around him started coming into focus. The first thing he saw was an ornate mirror hanging on the wall. That hadn’t been in his old room in 1980! John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The mirror was still there. He hadn’t just imagined it! His heart pounding and his stomach fluttering with excitement, John finally sat up and took in the rest of the room. It was filled with ornate furnishings and decorations, the walls covered in floral wallpaper. From outside, John could hear the sound of horses’ hooves. He couldn’t help the small, joyous laugh that escaped his lips. “I made it,” he whispered to himself, grinning widely.

John stood up slowly, gingerly flexing his muscles. He felt a little strange, but was glad to feel that his journey hadn’t injured or harmed him in any way. He was just making his way over to the mirror, to make sure he hadn’t accidentally left an eyebrow or something behind in 1980, when he heard a woman humming in the adjoining room. He froze, then came to his senses quickly enough to dart through a curtain into the closet that lay behind it just before the woman entered the room.

As the humming grew louder, John couldn’t help his curiosity: he opened the curtains ever so slightly, just enough to peek through. The woman was bustling about the room, apparently getting ready for dinner. She was currently in only her underwear and shoes, the corset and heels combining to show off her fine figure, and John couldn’t help but stare for a moment, before remembering Sherlock Holmes and immediately feeling ashamed. He quickly brushed off the feeling of guilt, however, because in the next moment, the women moved into the next room and John saw his opportunity to escape. He tiptoed out of the closet and toward the door of the suite, but he stopped short when he saw the door handle start to turn. Someone was coming in! Without enough time to get back in the closet, John dived behind a chair just as the door opened.

Peeking around the side of the chair, John saw a middle-aged man with greying hair enter the room. “Maud!” he called out in a mildly cockney accent. “I’m back!”

Maud re-entered the room, and the man let out an exasperated sigh when he saw her still in her underwear. “Aren’t you ready yet?”

“No,” Maud replied shortly, continuing to rush about.

The man watched her with a look of annoyance. “I really don’t know why you’re acting so upset.”

“No, Greg, I suspect you do not!” she snapped.

Greg sighed again. “Is this to do with earlier? Are we going to have this maddening exchange every time I have a nice conversation with someone other than you?”

Maud snorted. “‘A nice conversation’? Is that what you call it?”

“What do you call it then?” Greg asked.

“Flirting! You were flirting with him!” Maud accused. _Oh, Christ_ , John thought, rolling his eyes.

Greg sounded affronted when he replied, “I wasn’t flirting with him. I was just talking to him. He’s a very interesting man. He manages a theatre company he’s here with.”

John’s eyes widened at that. Was Greg talking about Mycroft Holmes?

Greg was still talking. “They’re performing at the hotel theatre tomorrow night. I thought we could go.”

Maud scoffed. “Oh, you mean so I can watch you flirt more with other men? No thanks! I’m going to go lie down for a while.” She turned and stormed into the other room.

“Fine,” Greg snapped, following after her. “I’ll go alone then.”

“Good!” Maud’s voice came from the other room. “It will be nice to get away from you for a few hours!”

Hoping that they would be in the adjoining room arguing for long enough for him to get away, John slipped out from behind the chair and made his way out the door as quickly and quietly as possible.

He started walking down the hall, but abruptly turned around when he heard the door he had just come out of re-open and pretended to be coming from the other direction. He must not have closed the door quietly enough.

“Did you see someone just try to get in here?” Greg asked him as he approached the doorway again.

“Yes, some young chap,” John lied. “Ran that way.” He pointed down the hallway.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Greg said. “I came to this fancy hotel to escape troublemakers like that. The lad is damn lucky I’m on vacation and can’t be bothered to investigate the matter.”

John briefly wondered what Greg did for a living, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Maud’s complaining voice coming from within the suite. Greg grimaced. “I’d better go. Cheers.” And with that, he closed the door, leaving John breathing a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We'll see more of 1912 next week, when I'll be back to posting on Thursdays.


	8. Searching for Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! It's in the tags, but I feel I should warn you that this is the first chapter where we'll see (non-graphic) child abuse. Thanks as always to everyone reading, everyone who's left comments and kudos, and Katie for her awesome beta work. Enjoy!

Too excited to wait any longer before finally meeting Sherlock Holmes, John decided to go directly to his room and see if he was in. As he walked the halls towards suite 221, John practiced what he would say when he got there, each option sounding more stupid than the last: “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. You don’t know me.” “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. I’ve just come 68 years. May I speak to you?” John had reached the door labelled 221B by this point and realized that he was just going to have to wing it; he couldn’t very well stay stood in front of the door debating what to say. Taking a deep breath, he knocked tentatively on the door and then, feeling emboldened, knocked again louder.

An attractive, dark-haired woman answered the door. The John Watson of only a few weeks ago wouldn’t have thought twice about trying to flirt with her, but there was only one person on John’s mind now. “Hello, is Mr Sherlock Holmes here?” he asked.

The woman immediately looked wary. “No, I’m afraid he’s not,” she replied, moving to close the door.

John held out his hand to hold the door open. “Could you tell me where he is?”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea, sir,” the woman said, closing the door in John’s face but leaving him no less determined than before.

* * *

John continued his search for Sherlock Holmes, taking the elevator down to the foyer. When the door opened, John made to leave the elevator, but then stopped, enraptured. In theory, he had known what he was coming back in time to, but he hadn’t fully grasped or really even thought about what it would actually be like. John gazed out at the foyer, which was just as ornate and decorative as the room upstairs had been and was filled with elegantly dressed, clearly very wealthy people. John felt his jaw drop slightly.

“Getting out?” came an annoyed voice from behind him, and John quickly apologized before stepping out into the foyer.

As John crossed the foyer, staring around him in wonder, he suddenly heard a shout coming from a room behind the front desk. “Get out of here, Martha!” a voice growled, then John heard the tell-tale sound of knuckles on flesh followed by a high-pitched wail. A moment later, a tiny girl ran out the room crying, threw herself into a chair in the foyer, and buried her face in her hands. John looked in concern for a moment at the little girl, before approaching her. He knelt in front of her chair and reached out a hand to gently touch her small shoulder. The little girl looked up, and John could see a large bruise forming on her tear-stained cheek.

“Are you ok?” he asked her. She nodded, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. John gently touched the bruise on her cheek. “Who did this to you?” When the little girl looked frightened at his question, he returned his hand to her shoulder and gently rubbed it. “It’s ok, I promise you won’t get in trouble if you tell me.”

The girl looked down at her lap, before finally whispering, “Father.”

John felt a surge of anger at the thought of a father hurting his own daughter, but his anger was quickly replaced by an epiphany. Mrs Hudson had said that her father was a desk clerk at the hotel, starting in 1910, and that she had come to the hotel with him as a little girl. Could it be? “Your name is Martha?” John asked. Martha nodded. “Martha Hudson?” Another nod. John suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness towards the little girl who as an old woman had been so kind to him. Wanting to get her farther away from her abusive father, he suggested they relocate to the porch so he could tend to her cheek. Nodding, Martha took his hand and allowed him to lead her outside.

Once Martha was comfortably seated in a porch chair far too large for her, John knelt down in front of her once more, pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, and started dabbing gently at her cheek, which had started to bleed a bit. He continued to question Martha as he worked. “Does your father hurt you often?”

Martha looked uncertain again, but she must have decided to trust the kind man, because she replied, “He doesn’t like it when I interrupt him when he’s with his special clients.”

So this wasn’t a one-time occurrence, then. John didn’t know how often Mr Hudson had “special” clients, or even what Martha meant by that, but he did know that the man clearly hurt his little girl on a regular basis. He didn’t know what sorts of child protection laws existed in 1912, so he didn’t know if going to the police was an option. But he resolved that if at all possible, he would do what he could to help little Martha Hudson.

* * *

Still, John’s first goal was to find Sherlock Holmes, so after making sure that Martha was happily occupied with a doll in the foyer, he continued his search, deciding to try the theatre.

John found the hotel theatre in the park, situated in a picturesque location by the lake. He entered the theatre and immediately felt in the way; people were rushing about, setting up for the performance the following night, and there was a rehearsal in progress on the stage. Still, John was not to be deterred. He approached two men sitting towards the front of the theatre, overhearing a part of their conversation.

“Leave within two hours after the show’s over?” one man was saying. “The man’s insane!”

“Nevertheless, that’s what he wants. You know Mr Holmes,” the other said.

“I wish to God I didn’t,” the first replied. “Fine, if he’s so anxious to get out of here, let him doff his fine coat and help us tear down the set.” He turned abruptly to John, who had been standing awkwardly next to the two men. “What?!”

Startled, John jumped. “Sorry. Have you seen Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“If you have a message for him, give it to me and I’ll see it reaches him,” the man snapped, before returning to his conversation without giving John a chance to respond.

John next wandered over to the stage, where the director was critiquing the actors. “This is a comedy, not _King Lear_. Let’s not bury the playwright before his time.”

“Excuse me,” John interrupted. “Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if anyone had seen Mr Sherlock Holmes?” The director and actors stared at him for a moment, before returning to their rehearsal as if he hadn’t spoken at all. John stood there awkwardly for a moment before wandering off, nonplussed. Why did no one seem to want to tell him where Sherlock Holmes was?

John decided to try the dressing rooms next. _Third time’s the charm_ , he thought to himself as he knocked on the dressing room door, filled with nervous anticipation. The door opened, and for one marvellous split second, John thought he had found him. But instead, he found himself face-to-face with a rather large woman wearing a pink wig and pink undergarments. “Um…” John said.

“Flustered, my sweet?” She walked seductively towards him. “What is it? Never seen an actress in negligee before?”

“Uh, I’m looking for Mr Sherlock Holmes, please,” John stuttered out as the woman made kissing noises at him.

To his relief, she stopped making the noises and replied, “Most likely exploring by the lake, my dear.”

“Thank you,” John said, and hurried away as fast as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we'll actually meet Sherlock very soon! See you next week ;)


	9. A Picturesque Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this week, but I hope the content makes up for it, because as the title suggests, we finally get to meet Sherlock! This chapter title is a reference to John's blog post "A Strange Meeting," but if you've seen Somewhere in Time, you'll know why I decided to call it "picturesque" instead!

John exited the theatre to find a beautiful sunset over the lake. He scanned the shoreline, hoping desperately for some sign of the elusive Sherlock Holmes. Sure enough, he saw something that made his heart speed up in his chest. Outlined against the sunset was the silhouette of someone tall and thin standing by the lake. John could make out curly hair fluttering in the breeze and a long coat billowing out dramatically.

John started to make his way across the lawn towards the figure. With every step he took, he was increasingly aware that this was really happening. Finally, _finally_ , he was about to meet his beloved Sherlock Holmes.

John approached the young man, intending to clear his throat to announce his presence before introducing himself, but before he could make a sound, Sherlock stiffened, as if he sensed John’s presence, and whipped around. Bright eyes, which impossibly seemed to be blue, green, and gold all at once, narrowed as they took John in. Then Sherlock opened his mouth, and John was awed by the rich baritone voice that came out of it. “You’re a doctor, always wanted to be one, but now are dissatisfied with what you’ve found to be a completely boring occupation. Just broke up with a beau, too, but you’re hoping to start a new romance soon. In fact, you already have a woman in mind, and you came here hoping to woo her. Interesting. And there’s something else…something strange…you’re not from around here, but where?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes again, before they suddenly widened. “Oh! It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Um, what?” was John’s elegant reply. _Smooth, Watson_ , he thought.

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asked again, this time sounding impatient and slightly unsure.

John didn’t know how to respond to this, so he simply said, “Yes.”

Sherlock looked intrigued at his answer, and, to John’s surprise, a little nervous as well. “I’m sorry if I startled you when I came up behind you,” John said, hoping to show him that he meant no harm.

Sherlock was immediately on the defensive. “I wasn’t startled.”

John was about to reply that actually, he was pretty sure he had startled Sherlock, when a voice snapped, “Sherlock! What have I told you about talking to strange men?”

John looked up to see Mycroft Holmes, standing there looking imposing in an expensive-looking tuxedo with an umbrella draped over his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled.

John snorted. “What, stranger danger? He’s not five!” He glanced sideways at Sherlock, whose lips were twitching up into a smile.

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to scowl. “I must insist that you refrain from distracting my brother. Otherwise, I shall have you removed from the property for loitering without a room. Come along, Sherlock,” he snapped, turning to leave. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

Sherlock huffed out a sigh, but followed after him up the path towards the hotel. However, before the brothers rounded a bend in the path, leaving John’s sight, Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, to where John was watching after him, and winked at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they've finally met! We'll see more of Sherlock (and Mycroft) next week, but I'd love to hear what you think so far!


	10. Is He the One?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this next chapter! Many thanks as always to everyone leaving comments and kudos!

Undeterred by Mycroft’s threat, and figuring the Holmeses would be dining in the hotel restaurant, John headed there that evening. Walking into the restaurant (the maître d’ let him in without question when he said he was dining with Sherlock Holmes), John was once again overwhelmed by the glamour of the hotel’s guests, wearing fancy evening wear and eating meals that looked like they cost the monthly rent on John’s flat. John looked around him in wonder as he wandered through the room in search of Sherlock.

He noticed one couple that were less fancily dressed than the other guests and didn’t seem to be eating much, and he realized with a start that it was Greg and Maud. “We couldn’t even afford to stay in this posh place,” John overheard Maud saying as he walked past the table. “This whole holiday is a disaster; we should never have come in the first place. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Greg clearly wasn’t listening then, instead staring at something on the other side of the room. John followed his gaze, and saw Mycroft Holmes sitting alone at a table for two. So Mycroft was there, but where was Sherlock?

John made to move further into the room, but an arm reached out and stopped him with a “Mon Cheri, we meet again.”

John looked down. It was the woman from the dressing room, now fully clothed in a gaudy purple dress and hat. “Hello,” he said politely.

“I so admire a man not hidebound by the dictates of fashion,” the woman told him in her bubbly voice and heavy French accent.

“Madam?” John prompted her for clarification.

“That suit!” she exclaimed, laughing. “I haven’t seen one like it for a decade.”

“A decade?” John felt a rush of anxiety as he thought about how perceptive Sherlock was. There was no way he wouldn’t notice that John’s suit was out of style. _With any luck he’ll just assume that I have no sense of style_ , John thought. He had never been overly conscientious of fashion anyway, so he was fairly confident that he could pull off that cover.

“Still looking for Mr Holmes?” the woman asked him, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes, I am,” John replied.

The woman pointed to the dance floor at the centre of the room. “Over there.”

John’s gaze followed the line of her finger to where Sherlock was dancing with someone. “Thank you,” John said, and walked onto the dance floor. When he got closer to Sherlock, he could see that he was dancing with an old woman who was more than a head shorter than him and about twice his girth. She seemed to be chattering constantly, and Sherlock was scowling heavily and wincing as if her chattering were causing him physical pain. John suspected that it was taking every bit of strength he had not to shout at her to shut up.

Laughing, John decided to put him out of his misery. He stepped up behind the old woman, intending to cut in. Sherlock noticed him over the woman’s head; his eyes went wide and he stopped dancing abruptly, causing the woman, who had been following, to stumble a bit. John tapped her on the shoulder, and she graciously moved out of the way, allowing John to take Sherlock’s left hand in his right and place his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder the way she had done, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he didn’t know the first thing about dancing. Sherlock, for his part, let John take his hand but then just continued to stand there, staring down at him. John grinned up at him, hoping his brightest smile would snap Sherlock out of whatever sort of trance he seemed to have gone into.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Dancing with you,” John replied, grinning even more.

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock contradicted.

“I would be if you would keep leading,” John said, nudging Sherlock’s foot with his own. “Go on then.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then he slowly brought his free hand around to rest at the small of John’s back. Then, finally, he started dancing again. John let Sherlock lead him around the floor, his confidence seeming to grow as he lost himself in the music. John’s own confidence grew as he realized that dancing was easy, enjoyable even, when he had Sherlock Holmes leading him.

“Why do you want to dance with me?” Sherlock asked after they had been dancing for a couple minutes, still sounding unsure.

John smiled at him. “Well, for one thing, you looked absolutely miserable dancing with that woman.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly back in his comfort zone. “She was horribly boring. I only agreed to dance with her to get away from my brother’s nagging. He wanted me to eat dinner.”

John was somewhat alarmed to hear that Sherlock was skipping dinner and wondered if he skipped meals often, if that was why he was so thin. However, John decided, that was a conversation for another time. “Right,” he said, bringing the conversation back to Sherlock’s question, “so I decided to save you from having to dance with her any more. I hope I’m less boring than she was?” Sherlock smiled down at him in confirmation. “But that’s not the only reason I wanted to dance with you,” John continued, lowering his voice seductively. “I’ve come an awfully long way to see you. You see, that was a pretty brilliant display down by the lake, when you figured out all that stuff about me.” Sherlock looked pleased and a little surprised at the praise, a light blush colouring his pale cheeks. “But you did get something wrong,” John continued. He leaned up towards Sherlock’s ear, going a little on his tiptoes, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It wasn’t a woman I came here to woo.”

Sherlock blushed bright red, and John noticed that they had stopped dancing again. He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring down at John with pupils blown wide and breathing heavily. He glanced pointedly at Sherlock’s perfect lips, and he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch. Then, his heart hammering in his chest, John started to lean up towards Sherlock very slowly, giving him plenty of time to back away if he wanted to. Sherlock’s hand started to shake in John’s, but he didn’t move away, allowing John’s mouth to get closer and closer…

“The man’s an intruder,” a voice broke in, and John fell back down onto his heels in disappointment. He and Sherlock both turned to see Mycroft standing there with the maître d’. “Please kindly have him escorted from the premises.”

John felt anger and embarrassment building up in him as the maître d’ took him by the arm and started to lead him away. He tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, but Sherlock was glaring at Mycroft furiously. Then suddenly Sherlock called out, “One moment,” causing the maître d’ to pause. He walked up to Mycroft, drawing himself up to his full height so he was almost as tall as his brother, crowding into his space and looking him straight in the eye. John thought that anyone else would have been intimidated, but Mycroft stood his ground, looking unperturbed and merely angry. “I shall go with him,” Sherlock said primly, before turning on his heel and stalking away from Mycroft.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice held a tone of warning. “You are not to go with that man.”

Sherlock turned back to him and scoffed. “Stop worrying, Mycroft. I’ll be fine; I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m not really going anywhere. I shall return momentarily.” He strode out of the room, leaving Mycroft looking furious and very worried. John hesitated only a moment before following.

“Thank you so much,” he said once they entered the room adjoining the restaurant. “That was so embarrassing –”

Sherlock cut him off abruptly. “What’s your name?”

“John Watson,” John replied.

“And where are you from?” Sherlock asked.

John didn’t think he could answer that question without making Sherlock suspicious, so he said, “Don’t you already know?”

Sherlock looked frustrated. “No, I can’t figure it out. Mycroft’s probably figured it out, but I’m not going to ask _him_.”

_Speak of the devil_ , John thought, as he noticed Mycroft lurking near the doorway, watching them. “What’s with him?” he asked out loud, nodding towards Mycroft.

Sherlock grimaced. “He’s overprotective, has been my entire life. I’m the youngest, and because he’s seven years older than me, he thinks it’s his job to take care of me. He still treats me like a child. It’s very irritating.” He looked over at Mycroft, who was now tapping the tip of his umbrella impatiently on the floor. Sherlock sighed. “I’d better go back in.” He turned to leave.

John grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Wait. When can I see you again?”

Sherlock looked back at him for a moment, and John could see longing written all over his face, but then he looked back at Mycroft and shook his head minutely. “I don’t know,” he said sadly, before returning to his brother in the restaurant, leaving John alone.

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock Holmes sat in his hotel room, room 221B, staring into his mirror without really seeing his reflection, a dreamy smile on his face. From the main room of the suite, he could hear Mycroft talking to the maid, Anthea, most likely giving her some sort of instructions, but he wasn’t listening to their conversation; he was too busy thinking about John Watson. John Watson, of origins so mysterious that even Sherlock couldn’t figure out where he had come from. John Watson, who didn’t allow Mycroft to scare him away. John Watson, who had come a long way just to be with _Sherlock_. John Watson, who had wanted to dance with Sherlock. John Watson, who had wanted to _kiss_ Sherlock. Sherlock’s left hand was still tingling from where John had held it, the only skin-to-skin contact they had had. Sherlock brought the hand up to his face and touched first his cheek and then his lips, wanting to spread the John-ness to more of his body.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” Sherlock was jolted from his thoughts as Mycroft entered the room without bothering to knock. “Wipe that ridiculous grin off your face; it makes you appear unintelligent.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “It does not! Why can’t you just let me be happy?”

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Please try to understand, Sherlock. I do want you to be happy. I want that very much. I’m simply trying to protect you from pain and heartbreak.”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded. “Is he the one?”

“Only you can know for sure,” Mycroft replied. “But as you seem too obtuse to figure it out, I’d rather not risk it.”

Sherlock jutted out his chin in defiance. “You can’t stop me from seeing him again.”

“I most definitely can do that,” Mycroft said, a warning look in his eyes. “And I will if I have to. So don’t test me.” When Sherlock stared back at him in stony silence, Mycroft’s voice softened. “I really do want what is best for you. Get some sleep tonight. You have a big performance tomorrow.” He left the room, leaving Sherlock staring furiously at his retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed seeing the boys interact more in this chapter, as well as the little look into Sherlock's head and his relationship with Mycroft at the end. I'll be back with more next week, and in the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	11. Tryst and Threat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such lovely comments this past week! Thank you all so much; they made me so happy! Hope everyone enjoys the next chapter!

When John opened his eyes, the first thing he was aware of was the pain in his lower back. At first he was confused, unsure of why he was in so much pain or even where he was, but then he remembered everything that had happened the day before. Traveling back in time. Meeting Sherlock Holmes. The dance. The almost-kiss. Mycroft’s untimely interruption. Left alone and without a room until the following morning, falling asleep, fully dressed, on a porch chair.

John sat up slowly and stretched, his muscles groaning in protest. He stood up, stamping the feeling back into his feet, before smoothing the wrinkles out of his suit and heading into the hotel, towards suite 221.

Upon reaching the suite, he knocked lightly on the door, but was greeted with silence. Surely they couldn’t be at breakfast already? John knocked again, a little louder now, and this time a voice from inside yelled, “Shut up!”

John grinned and put his mouth to the keyhole. “Please open the door? It’s John Watson.”

There was a scrambling noise from inside the room, before the door was flung open, and Sherlock stood before him, looking down at him with wide, startled-looking eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks. He was wearing a nightshirt and dressing gown, his feet were bare, and his curls were a mess. John thought he looked adorable.

“Good morning,” John said. “Did you sleep alright?”

Sherlock blinked a few times before he seemed to register that John had asked him a question, and an offended look came over his face. “I don’t need sleep,” he said indignantly.

John laughed. “Everyone needs sleep!” he exclaimed. However, at Sherlock’s annoyed look, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, fine. We’ll just have to agree to disagree on this for now. Anyway, would you like to go to breakfast with me?”

“I don’t eat breakfast,” was Sherlock’s immediate response.

John frowned. “Now hang on. Didn’t you skip dinner last night? And now you’re planning on skipping breakfast too? That’s not healthy, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stared at him, and John realized his mistake. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Do you prefer I call you ‘Mr Holmes’?”

“No, actually…” Sherlock’s voice was tentative. “I think I liked it when you called me ‘Sherlock.’” He smiled shyly.

John smiled back. “Good. And you of course may call me ‘John.’”

“John.” Sherlock tested it out, and John thought he had never heard anything better than hearing his name in Sherlock’s voice.

“So,” he continued, glad they were now officially on a first-name basis. “When can I see you today?”

“I shall be rehearsing all day,” Sherlock replied.

“All day!?!” John exclaimed, indignant. He started to rant loudly about how ridiculous it was that Sherlock didn’t have any time to himself, but Sherlock shushed him, looking frantically over his shoulder.

“What?” John asked.

“Mycroft is sleeping in the next room,” Sherlock whispered. “I don’t want him to wake up; he wouldn’t approve of me talking to you like this.”

“Ah, of course. I’m sorry,” John whispered back. He kept his voice quiet as he persisted. “Can you at least walk with me?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking frustrated. “I can’t.”

“Why?” John asked. “Because of your brother? Forget him! We could take him in a fight anyway.” Sherlock smiled, and John played his trump card. “Besides, if you don’t come walk with me and get to know me better, how will you ever figure out where I’m from?”

From the look on Sherlock’s face, John knew he had won. “Meet me at 1 o’clock, outside the hotel,” Sherlock demanded, before shutting the door in John’s face.

John shook his head and grinned. “He’s crazy about me.”

* * *

John went down to the dining room for breakfast. As he was eating alone, he grabbed a newspaper and was soon absorbed in the day’s news. It was fascinating to see what made the news on 28 June 1912. John was so absorbed in reading the newspaper that he didn’t notice the man heading in his direction until he had sat down at the table. The man cleared his throat and John looked up, dismayed but not entirely surprised to see Mycroft Holmes sat across from him.

Still, it wouldn’t do to be rude. John didn’t want to give Mycroft any reason to dislike him more than he already did. “Fancy some breakfast?” he asked, gesturing to the platter of food on the centre of the table. It was too much for one person, anyway.

Mycroft gave him a tight, very fake smile. “No, thank you.”

John shook his head. “Does anyone in your family eat? Your brother looks like he’s skin and bones.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Concerned from a medical standpoint, are you?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” John admitted, even though he knew that Mycroft already knew the answer.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are your intensions towards my brother?”

“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern.” John was determined to remain polite and not lose his temper.

“Oh, it is very much my concern,” Mycroft replied silkily.

“Yeah, and why is that?” John demanded with a fake smile of his own.

Mycroft examined his hand where it rested on the handle of his umbrella. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you,” John said sarcastically.

Mycroft’s eyes shot up, and he stared John down. John stared back, undeterred.

“You will stay away from him,” Mycroft ordered, voice threatening.

John didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t think so.”

Mycroft stood up so he loomed over John, who craned his neck back to look up at him without batting an eye. He was used to asserting himself from a lower vantage point.

“I don’t think you understand, Watson,” Mycroft said. “I have more power at my disposal than you can possibly imagine, and I won’t hesitate to bring down the whole of the British government on you if necessary. This is your final warning. Leave my brother alone.” He picked up his umbrella. “Good-day.” He turned and walked away, leaving John seething but still determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	12. Mr Hudson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reached a milestone in the past week - this story has now had over 1000 hits, which is very exciting for me! I can't thank all of you enough for the interest and support you've shown this fic.
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter!

A little after nine o’clock, John entered the foyer to get his room. No one was behind the front desk, so he rang the bell and waited. After a moment, a man came out of the office behind the desk. He had large bags under his eyes, and he looked rather cross. _Ah_ , John thought. _So this must be Mr Hudson_.

“How can I help you?” Mr Hudson asked gruffly, reaching around to massage his lower back.

“I’d like a room, please,” John said tersely, not bothering to keep the dislike out of his voice as he thought of little Martha.

Mr Hudson nodded, then turned to the shelves where the room keys were stored and brought one back to John, grimacing and bringing a hand up to massage his shoulder as he handed it over. John glanced down at the key and felt a jolt of panic. The key was for room 420. John was supposed to be in room 416. “Um, are you sure this is the right room?” he asked.

Mr Hudson scowled at him. “The right room? What the hell are you playing at?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Hudson,” a voice piped up. John looked around to see a young boy, perhaps twelve years old, stood half behind, half next to Mr Hudson. The boy was looking at the key in John’s hands. “That room is reserved,” he said, voice fearful. “I forgot to put a notice in the slot.”

“You fool!” Mr Hudson exclaimed, and the boy quaked. “Go get another key for this man!” As the boy scampered over to the shelves to get another key, Mr Hudson gave John a half-apologetic look, but John only glared back, and Mr Hudson’s expression turned back to a scowl. He continued scowling as the boy brought the new key over to the counter and held it out to John.

“Here you are, sir,” the boy said. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

John smiled at the boy. “There’s no need to apologize. And thank you very much.” He looked down at the key and felt a rush of relief. It was for room 416. “Thank you very, very much!”

The boy grinned at him, before looking at Mr Hudson, and seeing his furious expression, hurried back into the office.

Mr Hudson scowled after him, then turned back to John. “Well, now that’s sorted, would you care to sign the register?”

“Yes, I would,” John said quickly, and he filled out the guest book just as it had been when he found it in the attic. His business now complete and wanting nothing more to do with Mr Hudson, John turned to leave, but before he could exit the foyer, he noticed Martha sat curled up in a chair, looking forlorn. He made his way over to her.

“Martha?” he said gently, crouching down in front of her. Martha looked up at him fearfully, and John changed his initial assessment. She didn’t look forlorn. She looked traumatized. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Remember me from yesterday? You don’t need to be afraid.”

Martha just continued to stare at him with wide, terrified eyes. John sighed. “Is it your father? Did he hurt you again?”

Martha’s eyes grew impossibly bigger, and she quickly shook her head, looking back down at her lap. John pursed his lips. The little girl had confided in him yesterday. It had seemed like she trusted him. What had changed?

Slowly, so as not the startle her, John placed a hand on her knee. “I want to help you, Martha, but first you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Martha pulled away from him, looking like she was trying to disappear into the chair. “Nothing’s wrong,” she whispered, sounding close to tears. “Please, just go away.” She buried her face in her arms and turned her back on John, effectively ending the conversation.

John sighed again as he stood up. He couldn’t help but think that if Mycroft Holmes was as powerful as he claimed – and he didn’t doubt he was – he should stop using his power to control his brother’s life and instead focus on taking down the likes of Mr Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update was so short, but I promise the next two chapters will make up for it!


	13. A Day Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a long chapter this week! The title for this chapter comes from the "Somewhere in Time" soundtrack - it's the name of the piece that plays during this part of the movie. "Somewhere in Time" has an absolutely gorgeous soundtrack; if you are unfamiliar, it's on YouTube and I highly recommend checking it out. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy the chapter!

After finding his new room, which was very nice and just as ornate as the rest of the hotel, John set about getting ready for his date with Sherlock. He headed to the shared bathroom down the hall, where he showered and shaved; he struggled with using a straight razor, and by the time he was finished, he had cut his face in several places. Most of the cuts were small enough to be barely noticeable, but when he tried to shave his upper lip, he made several deeper cuts. Grimacing, John covered the worst cuts with bits of toilet paper to stop the bleeding. He examined his reflection with dismay. _Sherlock always looks so perfect, and here I am looking ridiculous. I look like I’ve got a toilet paper moustache._ Still, there was nothing for it. John returned to his room, where he carefully combed his hair, putting in a bit of product to hold it in place. He put on some cologne, smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit as best he could, and decided it was as good as it was going to get. He was ready.

* * *

At 1 o’clock, John was stood outside the hotel, waiting for Sherlock. He didn’t have to wait long before Sherlock appeared, his face breaking out in a grin when he spotted John, who grinned back. He quickly made his way down the front stairs and over to John. John offered him his arm, and to his delight, Sherlock took it, blushing slightly. Sherlock looked down at him, and his lips twitched up into an amused smile. “What have you done to your face?”

John touched his upper lip with his free hand, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Cut it shaving. Maybe I should just grow a moustache, then I won’t have to worry about cutting myself there anymore.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I prefer my doctors clean shaven,” he said, before a look of horror came over his face as he seemed to realize the implications of what he had just said.

John just grinned up at him. “Okay. I’ll shave for you.” He winked at Sherlock, who blushed again.

John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock where he wanted to walk, when the front door of the hotel opened and a furious-looking Mycroft stepped out. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” he exclaimed. “I won’t ask you again. Get away from that man.”

John clenched his hand into a fist as anger built up in him once again. He looked to Sherlock for direction. _I won’t punch Mycroft unless Sherlock wants me to._

Sherlock, however, simply stood there, his eyes locked on his brother’s in an icy glare, which Mycroft returned. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. “No,” he said simply, before turning and grabbing John’s arm. “Come on, John.” There was an empty carriage by the side of the road with a horse attached to it. John had just enough time to think that it must belong to a guest who had just arrived at the hotel before Sherlock had dragged him to it and scrambled onto the front seat. John climbed up after him as Sherlock picked up the reins and slapped them over the horse’s back. As Sherlock drove them quickly away from the hotel, John turned around and tipped his hat to Mycroft, who stood on the front steps watching them drive out of sight.

* * *

Sherlock drove recklessly through the streets of London. He pushed the horse to go faster and faster, taking sharp turns far too quickly. John kept expecting them to crash or the carriage to tip over. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done something so dangerous. And he couldn’t remember ever being happier.

John also realized that he no longer had any idea where they were. The streets were progressively becoming dirtier and dingier, the people they were passing more ragged-looking. He wondered if Sherlock had a plan or if he was just driving aimlessly.

“Where are we going?” he asked, once Sherlock had slowed down the carriage enough that John felt safe starting a conversation.

“East End, Whitechapel,” was Sherlock’s succinct answer.

John was perplexed. Whitechapel was a pretty nice area in 1980, but from what he had heard, he was pretty sure it wasn’t such a nice place in 1912. “Aren’t you worried about Jack the Ripper?” he asked, only half teasing.

Sherlock gave him a strange look. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. That was almost a quarter-century ago. Besides, Jack the Ripper wasn’t real. The murders were obviously conducted by several different men. After the first one was published in the papers, it was easy enough for other murderers to imitate the killing style, and the more notoriety the name got, the more appealing the imitation game became. Much easier to get away with a murder when everyone thinks it’s the work of a mythical mass-killer.”

John stared at Sherlock in shock, his mouth slightly agape. “That…was amazing.”

Sherlock turned to him with a look of surprise. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. Sherlock,” John shook his head. “You just solved the Jack the Ripper mystery. No one’s been able to solve that before. It’s legendary.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _legendary_ …” Sherlock trailed off at John’s look.

“Stop correcting me when I’m trying to compliment you,” John said. “You’re extraordinary.”

Sherlock’s face lit up, and he looked very pleased with himself as he turned to face forward again. John felt a warm rush of love course through him for the beautiful, brilliant, crazy young man sat next to him. John wanted him to look that happy all the time.

“We’re going to visit my friend, Wiggins,” Sherlock said suddenly. “You were wondering why we’re going to Whitechapel.”

“Oh, yes,” John replied. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him that Sherlock could read his thoughts. “Does your friend live in Whitechapel?”

“He spends time there,” Sherlock said evasively.

John didn’t understand what this meant, but since Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, John shrugged and looked around at where they were now driving. Sherlock had turned onto a narrow street – it was the dirtiest street yet, and the smell was horrible. Dirty people in tattered clothes sat huddled by the side of the street, watching the carriage as it passed them with hungry eyes. John suddenly realized. “Your friend is homeless, isn’t he?”

Sherlock nodded. “He wanders around London doing what he can to get by, but he can often be found in Whitechapel, if you know where to look and if you pick the right day.” His eyes lit up in recognition. “Like today.” He stopped the carriage and jumped out as a young man got to his feet and rushed forward to greet him.

“Holmes!” he exclaimed, grinning. “I thought the theatre company was still touring.”

“We are, but we have a show in London tonight,” Sherlock explained. “We’re not staying long, though. We’re not even staying at the house, because Mycroft wanted everyone to stay together in a hotel near the theatre.”

“You have a house in London?” John asked, coming to stand next to Sherlock.

“Technically it’s Mycroft’s house,” Sherlock said. “But yes, that’s where we live when we’re not touring.” He looked back at Wiggins, who was looking at John curiously. “This is my…friend, John Watson,” Sherlock said proudly (although John didn’t miss his uncertainty about what to call him). “John, this is Bill Wiggins. We’ve been friends for years now, ever since I started coming here to escape from Mycroft when he gets truly insufferable.”

“Nice to meet you, Wiggins.” John supposed he was meant to call him by his last name, since Sherlock did.

“You too, Watson.” Wiggins had been looking between him and Sherlock curiously, but now he smiled at him, before turning back to Sherlock. “So, what shall we do to occupy ourselves today?”

Sherlock grinned mischievously. “Pick-pocketing contest?”

Wiggins matched his grin and nodded. “Pick-pocketing contest.”

“No, wait, hang on.” John held up a hand. “You can’t make a game out of picking people’s pockets.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “Why not?”

John shook his head, exasperated. “Because, it’s stealing, Sherlock. It’s illegal.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John persisted. “It’s _especially_ wrong here. I mean, the people here are kind of…well…poor. It would be a bit not good to take what little money they have.”

Sherlock laughed. “Don’t be stupid, John. We’re not going to pickpocket people who live here.”

John considered that. “Oh. Right. So we’re leaving Whitechapel then?”

“No,” Sherlock said, before turning and walking down the street.

Lost, John looked to Wiggins for answers, but Wiggins just grinned at him and followed after Sherlock. John shook his head and followed after them, thinking that Sherlock was being completely infuriating by not explaining to John what he was up to, and that something must be wrong with him, because he found that it only made him love Sherlock more.

John caught up to Sherlock and Wiggins, who were now loitering casually in an alleyway beside a building. “Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked.

Sherlock lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I said we weren’t going to pick-pocket people who live in Whitechapel. I didn’t say we wouldn’t pick-pocket Whitechapel’s wealthier visitors. I doubt a man of your strong morals would object to us having some fun with the gentlemen who frequent this particular fine establishment.” He gestured to the building beside them.

“Why, what is it?” John still hadn’t caught on.

Sherlock huffed. “It’s a brothel, John!”

“Oh.” John hadn’t been expecting that. “Well, yeah, I suppose that’s fine then.” John waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the street. “Have at it.”

Wiggins nodded as a finely dressed gentleman approached the brothel’s entrance. “I’ll go first, yeah?” He casually made his way down the street. John watched him bump into the gentleman, who turned and appeared to yell at him. Wiggins held up his hands in a placating gesture while keeping his head bowed, and John imagined he was apologizing for bumping into the man. Then Wiggins turned and disappeared into the crowd, and the other man continued into the brothel.

While they waited for Wiggins to reappear with his loot, John edged closer to Sherlock. “So, I take it you don’t ‘frequent fine establishments’ like this one?”

Sherlock went very still. He glanced at John nervously. “‘Painted women.’ Not really my area.”

“What about ‘painted men’?” John asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Sherlock turned bright red. He swallowed hard. “I don’t frequent brothels,” he said quickly, looking like he would like nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up.

John instantly felt remorse. “Okay, sorry.” He stepped back to give Sherlock some space. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and appeared to breathe a sigh of relief, but John noticed that he still looked upset. _Poor thing’s so embarrassed talking about his sexuality_ , he thought. _And he got very flustered when we were about to kiss last night. Actually, he was flustered even when we were just dancing together and I was flirting with him. He clearly doesn’t have much experience with sex or romance, if any. Actually, that doesn’t surprise me at all. Mycroft barely lets him out of his sight, except when he runs off to visit Wiggins, and they’re clearly on a purely platonic basis._ John glanced up at Sherlock. _He still looks so miserable. What if he thinks I find his inexperience to be a turn-off? It certainly doesn’t bother me._

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but I just need you to know that whatever…experiences…you have or haven’t had, it’s fine with me. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock turned and looked John in the eye for the first time since this awkward conversation had started. “Thank you, John,” he breathed, and John held his eye contact and smiled at him.

The spell that seemed to descend on them as they stared into each others’ eyes was broken by Wiggins, who ran up to them from the alley; he had apparently gone around the block before returning to ensure the man he had pick-pocketed wouldn’t notice him. Wiggins opened his hand, showing the coins sitting in his palm. “Not bad,” he said. “Two half-crowns and three bob.”

Sherlock snorted. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Go on, then,” Wiggins urged him.

John watched Sherlock walk out into the street, looking around himself in what appeared to be nervousness. John thought that was odd, until he realized that Sherlock was acting. Sherlock stopped a gentleman outside the brothel, and when he spoke to him, he spoke loud enough for John to hear. _Show off_ , John thought fondly. He also spoke in an accent different from his own London one; John couldn’t place the accent he was using, but it sounded posh.

“Excuse me, sir,” John heard Sherlock say. “I appear to be lost. I’m not from around here, and I seem to have lost my way and wandered into a bad part of town. Please, could you point me in the direction of the river? I should be able to find my way from there.”

John couldn’t hear the man’s reply, but he could see him look at Sherlock kindly and point him in the direction he would need to go.

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock said, and grasped the man’s hand in a quick handshake. Then the man patted him lightly on the shoulder and turned to head into the building. As soon as the door had shut behind him, Sherlock broke character and came strolling back to where John and Wiggins waited in the alley. “One guinea, a half-crown, two shillings, and three farthings,” Sherlock said, opening his hand to show off the collection of coins he had gotten from the man.

Wiggins sighed at his defeat, but he accepted the gift of Sherlock’s coins with a grin and a “thank you” all the same.

Sherlock then turned to John abruptly. “Your turn, John.”

“W-what?” John stammered. “Sherlock, I don’t know how to do that!”

“Oh, come on, it’s easy,” Sherlock insisted. “Even Wiggins can do it marginally well.”

Wiggins punched Sherlock lightly on the arm. “Thanks for that.” He turned to John. “Really Watson, you must try. It’s fun!”

John looked out at the street. A nicely dressed gentleman was headed in the direction of the brothel. “Oh, alright, I’ll give it a try,” John said. He turned to Sherlock. “But if I get caught and arrested, you’d better bail me out.”

Sherlock giggled. “Of course, John.”

John took a deep breath, and then, before he could change his mind, he stepped out into the street. The man had passed by the alley by now, so John followed behind him, trying to remain inconspicuous while rushing to catch up to him. He came up behind the man and reached around him, trying to reach into his pocket without him noticing. He knew he had failed when the man whipped around and exclaimed, “You’re trying to pick-pocket me!”

“I…n-no…I wouldn’t dream…” John stammered.

The man ignored him. “Officer!” he yelled. “This man was trying to pick-pocket me!”

_Shit_ , John thought, as a pair of police officers started running through the crowd in his direction.

He turned on his heel and ran. Suddenly, Sherlock appeared at his side, grabbed his hand, and pulled him down a side street. Hand-in-hand, they ran full out, John straining to keep up with Sherlock and his longer legs. “Where’s Wiggins?” John panted, suddenly realizing that the third young man was missing.

“Ran the other direction,” Sherlock panted back. “Come on!”

He put on another burst of speed, and John grasped his hand tighter and allowed him to lead him through the back streets of London, trusting that he knew where he was going. Finally, the Thames came into sight, and John saw Tower Bridge ahead of them. He and Sherlock ran onto the bridge, pushing people out of their way as they dashed across to the south side of the river. John spared a glance behind them as they left the bridge and joined the bustle of activity on the streets of Southwark: the police were nowhere in sight; they seemed to have lost them. Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion, because a moment later he let go of John’s hand and collapsed against a wall, gasping for breath.

John collapsed next to him, also breathing heavily. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” _And I travelled back in time._ Suddenly realizing how funny the whole situation was, John started giggling, and Sherlock quickly joined in with a lower chuckle. They leaned against the wall side-by-side, clutching their sides as they laughed and tried to catch their breath, and John felt so alive.

As he started to get his breath back, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. He looked at the younger man, and Sherlock reached tentatively toward his face, where John’s sweat had made the toilet paper still on his upper lip come loose, a questioning look in his eyes. John nodded slightly, then held eye contact as Sherlock gently peeled the paper off his skin. He relished the feeling of Sherlock’s long fingers on his face, but all too soon, Sherlock seemed to loose his nerve and dropped his hand abruptly to his side, looking away awkwardly.

Not wanting Sherlock to feel uncomfortable, John wracked his brain for something to say to distract him from what had just passed between them. It occurred to him that Sherlock had just done all that running after skipping the previous two meals. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

Sherlock looked surprised at the question. “I don’t remember. What day is it?”

“You don’t remember…” John shook his head. “Okay, you need to eat.”

“But John,” Sherlock complained. “I’m performing tonight. I don’t eat when I have a performance.”

“Or any other time, apparently,” John retorted. “You’re probably already underweight, and you just spent a lot of energy running from the police. You’ll pass out from hunger if you don’t eat soon. Come on, I’ll get you something.”

* * *

John took Sherlock to Borough Market, and despite Sherlock’s loud protests, bought him a pasty and an apple. Then they walked back towards the river as Sherlock reluctantly ate his food. They strolled across London Bridge, and with Sherlock at his side, John felt completely content. He started to hum his favourite tune, which suddenly didn’t sound as sad as John used to think it did.

“That’s beautiful,” Sherlock commented. “What is it?”

John looked up at him. He was looking pensive and was seemingly oblivious to the apple juice dribbling down his chin. John reached up and wiped it away for him, and was thrilled when Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. “It’s Rachmaninoff.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. “I love his music, but I’ve never heard this one. How could I have never heard one of his pieces?”

John cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing his mistake – of course Sherlock wouldn’t have heard the piece; it hadn’t been written yet. “Well, I’ll introduce you to it sometime.” Hoping to distract Sherlock, he took his hand, and it seemed to work, as Sherlock tensed slightly beside him. However, Sherlock didn’t pull his hand away, so John held on, and soon Sherlock relaxed. They walked hand-in-hand until they reached St. Paul’s, where they sat on the steps, shoulders touching, and watched the passers-by. Sherlock amused John by telling him the secrets of everyone they saw.

“How do you do that?” John asked in amazement.

“The science of deduction,” Sherlock said proudly.

John waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, asked, “The what?”

Sherlock huffed, as if he couldn’t believe John had the nerve to not know what he was talking about. “The science of deduction, John. Do try to keep up.” It was so condescending, but John found it oddly charming. For a moment he wondered vaguely what was wrong with him, but was soon caught up again in his amazement as Sherlock finally explained. “I can read a man’s profession in his finger nails, his clothing, or his expression. I can look at a stranger in the street and tell you what they’ve just been doing or where they’re headed. One look at you and I knew everything about you. Well,” he added, sounding frustrated, “nearly everything.”

“That’s amazing,” John complimented, causing Sherlock to blush. “Does that help you with your acting?”

“Acting!” Sherlock scoffed, John’s compliment forgotten. “Dull!”

John looked at him curiously. “Why are you an actor if you hate it so much?”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft makes me. I have a great talent for acting, and my brother wants me to perfect the craft so I can ‘rise to great success, make Mummy proud.’” He imitated his brother’s voice on that last bit. “But it’s all so pointless, just reciting lines for the idiots who come to see Mycroft’s plays. I want to use my talent to do something _important_ , something _interesting_. I could be a detective. A brain like mine would be loads of help to the police. Idiots. Of course I could put my acting talent to use when interrogating suspects. But the point isn’t acting; the point is that it would actually be a _challenge_. Mycroft’s plays are _boring_.”

“Well,” John said. “I think you would make a brilliant detective. You should tell your brother that you don’t want to be an actor anymore and that you’re going to be a detective instead. And if he doesn’t like it, too bad.”

Sherlock sighed again. “It’s not that simple, John. You have no idea how powerful he is. He’d never let me get away with leaving the company. And even if I escaped, I have no money to live on my own; Mycroft controls all my income. And it’s not like I can go back to living with my parents at this point. I’m 25, and I haven’t lived with them since I was 16!”

John squeezed his hand. “We’ll figure something out. I want you to be doing something that makes you happy.” Sherlock smiled at him, but he didn’t seem convinced that there was anything they could do.

John and Sherlock sat and talked for a long time. They talked about any- and everything: John’s job (which Sherlock conceded sounded even more boring than his own), their favourite past-times (John enjoyed hearing Sherlock talk about his love for the violin), their families, their childhoods (John was amused to learn that Sherlock had been obsessed with pirates), their hopes and dreams, their fears. John told Sherlock about Martha, her abusive father, and how worried he was about her. Sherlock confided in John why he had had a hard time opening up to him and why he had been nervous when they first met.

“Why did you say ‘Is it you?’” John asked when Sherlock broached the subject.

Sherlock hesitated before answering. “I was expecting…someone.”

“Who?” John asked, and when Sherlock didn’t answer, he pushed, “Me?”

Sherlock gave a slight nod. “Mycroft told me you were coming. I hate to admit it, but his mind is even greater than mine. When I was little I thought he knew everything. When I grew up I found out that I was right. He told me that one day I would meet a man who would change my life.”

“Did he tell you that man would be someone to be afraid of?” John asked gently.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, looking at the ground.

“But what about now?” John asked worriedly. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at him. “No, obviously not, John.”

John smiled back and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. John briefly contemplated trying to kiss Sherlock again, but decided not to push his luck. Suddenly he had an idea. “Hey, I know you said you outgrew the pirate thing, but are you still interested in looking for buried treasure? Because I know a place where we could explore and we might find some cool stuff. At the very least, it will be pleasantly spooky.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he jumped up and waved down a passing cab. “Where are we going?”

John grinned as he followed Sherlock into the cab. “Baker Street Hotel,” he told the cabby, and then added to Sherlock, “The attic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week will be part 2 of John and Sherlock's "day together." Until then, I'd love to hear your thoughts, and don't forget to check out the soundtrack on YouTube if you're interested!


	14. Let's Play Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the "day together"! The title is a reference to "The Sign of Three."

John showed Sherlock to the attic, smiling to himself at how excited Sherlock seemed as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. When Sherlock reached the top, he stopped and looked around. “Oh, John,” he breathed. “This is amazing. How did you know how to get up here?”

“Oh, I was just exploring,” John lied, coming up behind Sherlock. He was surprised to see that the attic was even more cluttered than it had been in 1980; now it was a complete maze of old crates, trunks, and hotel memorabilia, just waiting to be explored.

Sherlock dug right in. He pulled open a trunk and started pulling out what looked like old linens, before muttering “Boring” under his breath and moving on to a different trunk.

John grinned and joined him. “Let’s see who can find the most interesting things,” he suggested. Sherlock nodded his agreement, and the game was on!

They searched through the attic for a while, and after about half an hour, Sherlock had found the most interesting thing – an elaborately decorated bonnet, which he had modelled to both their amusement. Still giggling, Sherlock tossed the bonnet aside and made his way to the far end of the attic, where he stopped dead. “John?” he called uncertainly.

The smile immediately left John’s face as he looked up to see Sherlock staring in horror at something on the floor and out of John’s sight. He rushed to Sherlock’s side, and was shocked to see a man lying unconscious on the floor, a good deal of blood on the front of his shirt. He looked dead, but just in case, John fell to his knees and checked his pulse – nothing. He ripped open his shirt to find the source of the blood, and found himself looking at what was clearly a stab wound.

“He was stabbed,” Sherlock said, and John was impressed that he recognized the wound. Then Sherlock asked, “Is he dead?”

John nodded solemnly, wondering if Sherlock would be upset. He realized he had no idea if Sherlock had any experience with death.

So he was shocked when he looked back up at Sherlock and found him looking absolutely gleeful. “Oh, this is wonderful!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Wonderful?!” John repeated in shock. “Sherlock, there’s a man lying dead. Being excited about it is a bit not good.”

“Oh, don’t be boring, John,” Sherlock whined. “People die every day. Are murdered every day. But this time, the culprit didn’t get away with it.” He rubbed his hands together. “We discovered the body, and now we can solve the case!”

“Um, no,” John said firmly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I know you want to be a detective, but this is really beyond either of us. We need to notify the police.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know, they’re idiots,” John continued. “But they’re the law and they need to know about this murder. If we didn’t tell them, we’d be obstructing justice.” Sherlock sighed, looking dejected, and something in John broke. “Look,” he said gently. “Maybe they’ll let you help, if you show them how smart you are. I’ll just nip down to the front desk and ask them to contact the police, and meanwhile, you can stay here and start deducing.”

* * *

John hurried down to the lobby and was just about to head over to the front desk when he spotted the man whose room he had arrived in the previous day. _Greg_ , his mind helpfully supplied. He also remembered that Greg had talked as if he had some kind of law enforcement job. Deciding it would be faster to speak with him directly, John changed course and headed over to him instead.

Greg was sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby, drinking what looked like a whiskey and massaging his temples. He looked stressed. John almost felt guilty about bothering him, but decided that bringing a murder to his attention was too important. He stepped in front of him and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, and Greg looked up at him. John held out his hand. “I don’t know if you remember me, we sort of met yesterday when someone tried to break into your room…”

He trailed off as Greg nodded and stood, taking his hand and shaking it. “Yes, I remember. Sorry that I was so brusque then. I didn’t introduce myself, did I? Name’s Greg Lestrade.”

“John Watson,” John responded, making a mental note that he was supposed to call his new acquaintance “Lestrade,” not “Greg.”

Lestrade smiled at him. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” John started. “Something you said yesterday made me think you might be with the police?”

Lestrade nodded. “I’m a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. I investigate homicides.”

John couldn’t believe his luck. “Then you’re just our man,” he said. “My friend and I were up in the attic –” Lestrade gave him a funny look. “Just looking around,” John explained. “And we came across a dead body. It looks like he was stabbed. I left my friend with the body while I came to get the police.”

Lestrade downed the rest of his whiskey and set down the glass. “Lead the way.”

John nodded and hurried off in the direction of the attic, Lestrade on his heels. “I’m really sorry about interrupting your vacation,” John told him.

Lestrade shook his head. “Don’t be. Any excuse to not have to spend time with the wife…”

* * *

John and Lestrade found Sherlock on his hands and knees, looking closely at the corpse. He didn’t acknowledge their arrival until John cleared his throat and said firmly, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at him impatiently, his eyes daring John to have a good excuse for interrupting him. John gestured towards Lestrade. “This is Greg Lestrade. He’s from Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock looked at it for a second, then turned his attention back to the corpse. Lestrade, to his credit, brushed off Sherlock’s rudeness. He crouched down next to the corpse and started examining it as well. “The body’s still fairly fresh,” he said after a few moments. “It’s been here for less than a day.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oh?” Lestrade looked at him with an expression of surprise. “Do you have experience with investigating murders?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Unimportant. What is important is that I’m far more intelligent than the idiots you usually work with, yourself included. I bet you haven’t even figured out what type of knife the murderer used or the build of the man who dragged the victim up here.”

John buried his face in his hands, horrified at Sherlock’s speech. Lestrade gaped at Sherlock. “You’ve figured these things out?”

“Of course.” Sherlock got up and started pacing around the attic, talking quickly. “The wound was made with a fascine knife, which means the murderer must have served in the army at some point. Presumably the Boer War. He’s large in build, obviously. And of course he must have an extensive knowledge of the building, if he knew where the attic was…OH,” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, eyes wide. “John! We have to go question the little girl!” He started to run towards the stairs.

“Wait, wait, lad, slow down.” Lestrade held up his hands. “What are you talking about? What little girl? And how do you know all this?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “I simply observed, like anyone could do, if everyone else wasn’t an idiot. I’m almost certain the murderer was the desk clerk! If we go question the little girl, we can find out for certain!”

“Martha?” John asked in amazement, suddenly understanding her fear. “His young daughter,” he added to Lestrade.

“Yes, yes, her,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Let’s go!”

“But hold on,” Lestrade said. “You still haven’t explained how you know any of this.”

Sherlock groaned exaggeratedly, until John shot him a look that shut him up. “It’s called ‘The Science of Deduction,’” John explained to Lestrade. “He’s very observant, and he’s taught himself how to put together what he observes and make sense of it. He’s brilliant. I know it’s unorthodox, but you can trust what he says.”

Lestrade blew out a breath of air. “Okay,” he agreed after a moment. “I’ll trust you for now, and we can go question this child. But eventually, I’m going to need a proper explanation that will stand up in court.” He looked sharply at Sherlock. “Clear?”

Sherlock’s only response was to grin, turn on his heel, and bound down the stairs.

* * *

They found Martha sitting on the porch, holding her doll and looking subdued. Sherlock made to rush over to her, but John put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Wait just a moment,” he said, before heading over to Martha and crouching down in front of her. “Hi Martha, remember me?”

Martha looked up at him, recognition in her sad-looking eyes.

John smiled at her. “I’ve brought some friends who want to talk to you. Is that okay?”

Martha shrugged. Deciding that was the best he was going to get, John took a seat in the loveseat-sized porch chair next to Martha’s and gestured for Sherlock and Lestrade to join them.

Sherlock bounded over and stood in front of Martha’s chair, towering over her and causing her eyes to widen in fear. “Has your father been acting suspiciously?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock,” John admonished. “Take a seat and calm down. You’re scaring her.”

Sherlock looked down at Martha’s terrified face and had the decency to look guilty. He sat down next to John. Lestrade took another chair. He smiled at Martha. “My name is Mr Lestrade. What’s yours?”

“Martha,” the little girl whispered.

“Nice to meet you, Martha,” Lestrade said. “I was wondering if you could help me out. I’m trying to solve a puzzle and you seem like the kind of smart girl who would be able to help. Do you think you could answer some questions for me?”

Martha’s face screwed up as she seemed to consider Lestrade’s request. Beside him, John could sense Sherlock fidgeting impatiently. He placed a hand on his knee as a gentle warning not to interrupt Lestrade’s interrogation.

Finally, Martha nodded hesitantly. Lestrade smiled at her and asked gently, “Did you see your father this morning?” Martha nodded, but John noticed that she was starting to look more suspicious. Lestrade continued, “Can you tell me about how he was acting this morning?”

Martha clamped her mouth shut and frantically shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “Okay, okay,” Lestrade held his hands out in a placating gesture. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” Sherlock blurted out. “Did your father kill someone? Are you covering for him?”

John and Lestrade both groaned, as Martha shook her head harder and started to sob. “Okay, no more questioning witnesses for you.” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his jacket, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him away, leaving John to comfort little Martha.

* * *

Once Martha had calmed down, John re-joined a sulking Sherlock in the lobby. He nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Where’s Lestrade?” he asked. Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt and nodded in the direction of the hotel telephone. As John watched, Lestrade rang off and headed back in their direction.

“I’ve just spoken with Scotland Yard,” he told them. He turned to Sherlock. “I think you were right to suspect the desk clerk, and my boss agreed that Martha’s behaviour was suspicious enough. We have a warrant to search his office.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, eyes bright with excitement again, but before he could run off, Lestrade gave him a stern look. “No more running impulsively into things, though. If you want to help with this case, you need to stay calm and follow my lead.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but John stepped lightly on his foot, and Sherlock sighed and nodded in agreement.

“Come on, then,” said Lestrade, and the three of them made their way across the lobby in the direction of the front desk. Before they reached their destination, however, they were intercepted by a woman whom John recognized as Lestrade’s wife, Maude.

“Gregory Lestrade!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been, I’ve been looking all over for you! Why aren’t you ready for dinner?”

“Sod dinner!” Lestrade retorted. “There’s been a murder, and I’m on the case. I hope we can agree that’s a little more important?”

Maude looked incredulous. “You’re supposed to be on holiday! All you ever do is work; that’s why we took this holiday in the first place! We’re supposed to be spending time together but you’ve barely paid me any attention since we got here! First, the flirting with the theatre manager, now this! I don’t believe it!”

“Flirting with the theatre manager?” Sherlock looked gleeful.

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Lestrade. (John looked around uncomfortably. They were starting to attract some stares). “Would you put the bloody theatre manager to rest? And I refuse to be made to feel guilty for –” He glanced around, seemed to realize he had an audience, and lowered his voice. “For trying to solve a murder.”

“Fine!” Maude spat. “I’ll just go to dinner alone, and if a nice gentleman asks me to dance, I won’t tell him I’m married.” She turned on her heel and marched in the direction of the dining room.

“Fine!” Lestrade yelled at her retreating back. Then he sighed and reached up to massage his temples. An awkward silence fell over the three men. Unsure what to say, John felt uncomfortable. Sherlock must have been feeling the same way, because he reached for John’s hand. John gave his hand a comforting squeeze, and then held on.

Finally, Lestrade dropped his hand to his side and let out a breath of air. “Sorry you had to witness that,” he said.

“It’s fine,” John told him. “I’m sorry you had to go through it.” Lestrade gave him a grateful smile.

Suddenly, Sherlock giggled. “Were you really flirting with my brother?” At Lestrade’s questioning look, he clarified, “The theatre manager.”

A look of realization came over Lestrade’s face. “So you’re the annoying little brat he was complaining about.” But he looked more amused than annoyed. “Come on boys, let’s go search this office.”

They walked behind the front desk, then passed through the door into Mr Hudson’s office. The room’s sole occupant, Mr Hudson’s assistant boy, stood up as they entered. “What are you doing?” He sounded scared. “You can’t come in here.”

Lestrade showed him his badge. “Actually, we can. I’m from Scotland Yard, and I have a warrant to search this office. Stay out of our way and you won’t be in any trouble.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he scampered off to the side of the room. “Good lad,” said Lestrade, and they started searching the office.

John decided to go through the desk. Most of the drawers were filled with seemingly innocuous files, but the bottom-most drawer was locked. John turned to the boy. “Do you know where Mr Hudson keeps the key to this drawer?”

“He keeps that key with him all the time,” the boy replied. “I’m not allowed to look in there.”

 _Okay, that’s suspicious_ , John thought. He turned to Lestrade. “Are we allowed to pick this lock?”

Sherlock jumped up from where he had been crouched down, examining the floor. “I can pick locks.”

“Of course you can.” John smiled fondly at him.

“Go for it,” said Lestrade, and Sherlock got to work on the lock. It wasn’t long before he had the draw opened, and they started going through the ledger books inside.

“He’s been buying and selling something,” said Lestrade, rifling through a ledger.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock. “It’s cocaine.”

“How –” John began, but at that moment, Mr Hudson stepped through the door, rubbing his shoulder, and froze.

“What are you doing in my office?” he asked, voice cold.

“I’m sorry, Mr Hudson,” the boy piped up. “I couldn’t stop them.”

Mr Hudson turned his glare on the boy, who cowered into the corner. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” said Sherlock boldly. He nodded towards Lestrade. “He’s going to arrest you for illegal drug trade and murder.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr Hudson growled.

“Oh, but I think I do,” Sherlock said primly. “You’ve been trading in cocaine through this office. Smart move, what with cocaine recently being outlawed and all. You realized that you could make good money by selling it to your wealthy guests who used to take it before it was outlawed. Buyers and sellers alike could come to the hotel posing as guests, and all the sales would go through you, at an inflated price, of course. The system worked well until last night. You bought a batch of cocaine yesterday evening, and Martha walked in on you. That’s why you shouted at her. You had pre-arranged to sell it on to a Mr Victor Trevor later that night, but something went wrong in the transaction. Most likely, you tried to charge more than the agreed upon price, and Trevor refused to pay it. Anyway, it ended with you losing your temper and stabbing him, and then hiding his body in the attic. However, you didn’t count on your daughter still being awake when you finally returned to your cottage for the night. She saw the bloody knife, so you had to threaten her not to tell anyone. That’s why she’s so scared.” Sherlock finally stopped for breath, looking triumphant.

Mr Hudson turned red with rage, and then suddenly, he lunged at Sherlock. John sprang into action, wrestling Mr Hudson away from Sherlock before he could harm him, and then he helped hold him still while Lestrade handcuffed him. “How did you know all that?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, it was obvious from the traces of cocaine and blood on the floor, the ledger books, and everything we already knew.”

“Not sure my boss would like that answer,” said Lestrade. “But it’s still enough to bring him in for questioning. Ta for all the help.” He gave Mr Hudson a tug to get him moving, and they left for Scotland Yard.

“Is he going to hang?” Mr Hudson’s assistant asked.

John suddenly remembered what Mrs Hudson had told him about her father being executed. “Yes,” he told the boy seriously. For the first time, the boy seemed to relax.

Then John turned to Sherlock and hugged him, and Sherlock melted into his embrace. “I thought he was going to hurt you,” he murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“He didn’t,” Sherlock murmured back into John’s hair. “You saved me.”

John grinned up at him, then he stepped back and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go talk to Martha.” Sherlock took his hand, and together they left to go tell little Martha Hudson that she no longer had to fear her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


	15. Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm very busy tomorrow so I decided to post a day early (and my beta, Katie, was kind enough to have this chapter ready to go early despite her own busy schedule).
> 
> There's a story behind the title to this chapter. While trying to come up with a good title, I happened across a Freddie Mercury song called "Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow," which I had never heard before. Turns out that, in addition to being very "trmojas" in general, this song perfectly fits this point in this story. So this chapter is dedicated to Freddie :)

It was almost time for Sherlock to start getting ready for his performance later that evening, so after they finished speaking with Martha, John walked him back to his suite. As they were walking, John took the opportunity to praise Sherlock. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, with all the excitement, how brilliant you were today. The way you put those clues together and solved that murder – amazing!” Sherlock turned bright red, and John grinned up at him. “It’s terrible, but I almost wish there would be another murder tomorrow, just so I could see your amazing brain at work again.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock suddenly looked sad. He shook his head. “There won’t be a tomorrow, John. The company is leaving London after the play tonight.”

John felt a weight settle in the pit of his stomach. “Oh. Yeah, of course, you’re on tour, I should’ve realized.” He cleared his throat against the lump that was suddenly forming there. “Where are you going?”

“Rome,” Sherlock whispered, looking down and blinking hard.

John felt like his heart was splitting in two at the thought of Sherlock going so far away, but he just nodded stoically.

They had reached suite 221 at this point, and Sherlock turned to John. “Thank you for today, John. It was…good.”

He moved to unlock the door, but John stopped him. “Can’t we talk for a little longer?”

Sherlock looked uncertain, but John gave him a hopeful little smile, and Sherlock caved. “Alright,” he said, handing John the key. “But just for a moment or so. Mycroft will be coming up shortly to make sure I’m getting ready for tonight.”

John unlocked the door and held it open for Sherlock to enter. He followed Sherlock into the main room of suite 221 and closed the door behind them, then turned to Sherlock, who was now stood in the middle of the room, looking very nervous.

“What did you want to talk about?” Sherlock asked. John just walked over to him, staring up at him heatedly and licking his lips. Sherlock blushed and swallowed hard, but he didn’t back away. John gently grasped Sherlock’s chin in one hand and angled his head down. His heart began to beat heavily as he felt Sherlock’s skin heat up further beneath his touch. He brought his other hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, tangling his fingers in the curls at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. His lips were parted, and he was panting slightly. “Oh my God,” Sherlock whispered in between pants. “What’s happening?”

John caressed Sherlock’s jawline. “Do you want this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was trembling, but he nodded. Slowly, gently, John pulled Sherlock’s head down, then gently touched his lips to Sherlock’s soft, perfect ones. John heard Sherlock’s breath hitch and he started to pull back slightly to make sure he was okay, but Sherlock quickly smashed their lips back together. John grinned against Sherlock’s lips and started to kiss him again, moving his lips against Sherlock’s and drawing a whimper out of him. When John nibbled slightly on Sherlock’s plump lower lip, Sherlock gasped and went weak at the knees, and John quickly moved his hand from Sherlock’s chin to the small of his back to keep him from falling. They continued to kiss as Sherlock snaked his arms around John so that they were now both embracing the other. Sherlock was a fast learner, and he followed John’s lead as he deepened the kiss, their lips now moving together in perfect synchronicity.

Suddenly, the door opened, and John and Sherlock broke apart. In the doorway stood Mycroft Holmes, and he looked murderous. “I think you had better go,” he told John, his voice threatening.

Embarrassed to be caught in the act, for once John agreed with Mycroft. However, before he could make his escape, he was startled by Sherlock’s enraged shout. “For God’s sake! Will you never give up trying to control my life?!”

“I’ll never give up trying to take care of and protect you–” Mycroft started, but Sherlock shouted over him.

“I’m so sick of you treating me like a child! I’m 25 years old! I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!” Sherlock was seething. He glared furiously at Mycroft, who glared back.

Feeling incredibly awkward, John made his way over to the door, but he stopped and turned around when Sherlock called out his name. “I shall leave a ticket for you at the theatre door,” Sherlock said.

John nodded, holding Sherlock’s gaze for a moment in an attempt to provide him with some silent comfort. Then he left, leaving the brothers alone. As soon as he exited the room, he heard Mycroft’s voice. “I’ve told you before. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” John clenched his fists. It took every ounce of his strength to resist going back there and decking bloody Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've finally kissed! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I hope everyone has a wonderful Halloween!


	16. A Dramatic Declaration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a spooky Halloween! Enjoy the next chapter!

John found his seat in the theatre later that evening and waited for the play to begin with a mix of excitement and dread – excitement at the prospect of seeing Sherlock perform, and dread at the knowledge that when the play was over, the company would be packing up and leaving.

However, when the opening music began to play and Sherlock walked out on stage, all negative thoughts left John’s mind, and his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock looked breath-taking, wearing a white tuxedo that fit him like it was made for him, his curls arranged perfectly. John applauded enthusiastically, then the play began and John became lost in just watching Sherlock act.

Sherlock was pacing back and forth on the stage, huffing dramatically (John chuckled to himself at how similarly to the real Sherlock this character was behaving). A maid entered the stage next. “Good evening, sir.” She spoke in a thick cockney accent.

“Not good at all,” Sherlock replied shortly. “Particularly bad. I’ll not go downstairs again.”

“Oh, what is it, sir?” the maid asked sympathetically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve just been dining with the man my father is determined that I wed.”

“Oh, banker Harwell,” said the maid.

Sherlock huffed. “Banker Harwell, yes. All 67 years and several hundred pounds of him!” John and the rest of the audience laughed.

On stage, the maid leaned conspiratorially towards Sherlock. “He does have money though, sir.”

“And never lets a soul forget it,” Sherlock immediately replied. “I’m amazed he has the least desire to marry. He’s so happily wedded to his gold.” John laughed again. Sherlock really did have good comic timing.

“Perhaps he won’t be that bad, sir,” the maid said. “There must be something you like about ‘im.”

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “His absence.” The audience laughed. Sherlock went on, “I consider myself married to my work and really have no desire to marry anyone at all. Weddings are, in my opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and irrational in this ailing world.” His eyes suddenly went glassy, as if he had gone into a daze. “There’s only one man I would ever consider marrying."

The maid stared at him for a moment, then asked, “And what man is that, sir?”

“My ideal man, the one I have created in my mind. I can almost see him now before me. What would I say to him if he were really here?” Sherlock gazed out into the audience, and John realized with a jolt that he had gone off script, that he was talking to _him_. “Forgive me. I’ve never known this feeling. Is it any wonder then I failed to recognize you? I never expected to have this, and certainly not with the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. You have changed my life; you keep me right, and in return, I will never let you down.” John felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he had to suppress the urge to run up onto the stage and hug Sherlock. Sherlock was now looking directly at John, his eyes filled with love. “It’s astonishing how quickly you have become the only feature of interest in my life. I can hardly find the words to describe how important you have become to me, except for these: I love you.”

John felt his eyes widen in surprise, before quickly filling with more tears that he blinked away rapidly, his heart suddenly feeling far too large for his chest. He wanted to jump up and tell Sherlock he loved him too, but Sherlock was already shifting back into character. “And such would I say to him if he were really here,” he said, recovering the scene he had just butchered. The audience, none the wiser, applauded, and John joined in, rising to give Sherlock a standing ovation when he took his bow. They made eye contact, and John bowed his head at him with a smile, the only way he could currently acknowledge everything Sherlock had just said to him.

After the curtain closed, John hurried backstage – he simply could not wait until the end of the play to talk to Sherlock and tell him he returned his feelings. He found Sherlock sat on a bench, having his photo taken. The photographer was trying to get Sherlock to smile, and Sherlock was ignoring him. Then suddenly, Sherlock noticed John stood by the photographer, and his whole face softened, forming into a loving almost-smile. “Perfect,” the photographer was saying, but John barely heard him. He was staring at Sherlock, enraptured, as the realization hit him that this was the photograph he had first fallen in love with. _He_ was the recipient of that loving smile he had initially felt so jealous of. Time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other, the love between them seeming to fill the whole room. John had never felt so full of love and happiness in his life, and from the look of him, neither had Sherlock.

Finally, a member of the theatre company broke the spell by reminding Sherlock that he needed to change quickly before his next scene. Sherlock shook himself, and hurried towards the dressing rooms, but not before brushing past John and whispering, “Meet me after.”

* * *

John sat in a daze during the next act, no longer paying any attention to the play. All he could think of was Sherlock, saying he loved John; Sherlock, giving him that smile; Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock. They would be together now, John would make sure of it. If Sherlock couldn’t leave the theatre company, then John would just have to travel with them. _Mycroft will love that_ , John thought with a smug sense of satisfaction.

Suddenly, John felt a tap on his shoulder. He startled slightly, and looked up to find a large man in a dark suit standing over him. The man handed him a piece of paper; looking down, John saw that it was a note, written in neat, precise handwriting. “Sir,” it read. “I must speak to you immediately. This is a matter of life and death, so do not fail me. The guard will take you to me. I suggest you do not resist him.” It was signed simply, “M,” but John had a pretty good idea who that was. His heart beginning to pound in anticipation, he stood and gave the guard a short nod, then allowed the guard to lead him out of the theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is "M" and what do they want with John? Stay tuned! Things are about to get serious!


	17. Mycroft's Interference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you like this new chapter!

The guard brought John further into the park, to what appeared to be an abandoned shed. He opened the door and gestured wordlessly for John to enter, and John only hesitated briefly before stepping inside, shoulders squared. As he heard the door close behind him, he looked around the small shed. In the light of a single lantern, hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the shed, he could see the shadowy outlines of rusted and broken garden tools. As John’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he could just make out the figure stood in the shadows at the other end of the shed, leaning on what appeared to be an umbrella. Then Mycroft Holmes stepped into the light, his usual tuxedo a sharp contrast to their dingy surroundings.

“Sherlock and I were raised in a quiet village in the country.” Mycroft dove into his story without preamble, staring down at his umbrella as if speaking to it, rather than to John. “Our parents gave us all the love we could possibly want, but they couldn’t provide us with intellectual stimulation. Sherlock had a happy and carefree childhood, writing plays to perform with his dog, but after Redbeard died, he was lonely and bored. He had no other friends, and he soon became restless and moody. So when I decided to move to London to start a theatre company, Sherlock begged to be allowed to go with me. He was only sixteen years old, but brilliant and talented. Under my tutelage, he began to thrive as an actor. He was happy again. That was nine years ago, and over those nine years, I have nurtured him, cared for him, moulded, taught, and developed him, and he has grown so much.” Mycroft looked up then, looking John in the eye for the first time since he had entered the shed. “I am so proud of how far he has come,” he said, and John was shocked by the amount of emotion in his voice. “But he still has so much untapped potential. He could be the greatest actor of his generation, if he only remains focused on his work. Are you really too dim to understand that?”

John ignored the jab. For the first time, he felt that he was beginning to understand Mycroft. He took a deep breath. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “All this time, I’ve assumed your need to control Sherlock came from some bloody power complex, but now I see that you truly care for him and only want him to succeed. But I also pity you. Despite all your love for him, you don’t really know your brother.”

“How dare you –” Mycroft began, but John cut him off.

“He doesn’t even want to be an actor; did you know that? Did that thought ever even occur to your brilliant mind? Did you ever think to ask him if he still wants to be doing this? Yes, perhaps it’s what he wanted when he was sixteen, but that boy doesn’t exist anymore. He’s changed. He grew up and you never noticed.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what my brother wants and doesn’t want,” Mycroft snapped. “You barely know him! I’ve known him his entire life.”

“I may have only known him for a short time,” John conceded. “But in that short time, we’ve become very close. I also want to see him succeed, see him make both of us proud, but I want it to be doing something that makes him happy. And no matter what he ends up doing, I want to be there at his side, supporting him the whole way.”

“Never!” Mycroft exclaimed.

“Why not?!” John yelled, finally losing his temper. “If you really want what is best for Sherlock, why would you keep him away from the man he loves?”

“I know more about my brother than you seem to think,” Mycroft said, his eyes cold. “I know that he’s rude and obnoxious, and that people don’t like him. But I also know that he is beautiful. I see the way men, mostly older men, look at him. It’s disgusting.” Mycroft grimaced. “So forgive me if I don’t believe that you love my brother. I know exactly what your interest in him is. But Sherlock is naïve and innocent. He has no experience with relationships, having never even had a friend before, so he does not understand this. It therefore falls to me to keep him away from predators like you, before he gets hurt. For I know that once you have taken what you want, you will quickly grow tired of his antics, and leave him heartbroken.”

John’s blood was boiling by the end of Mycroft’s speech. “Do you really think so little of me?” he yelled. “I love him, all of him, and I would never, _never_ hurt him!”

Such was the force of John’s outburst that he didn’t notice the door behind him open and somebody enter the shed, or Mycroft’s little nod to the person now stood behind him. The next thing he knew, he felt a prick in his neck. As his vision started to go hazy, John briefly tried in vain to fight off his attacker, before everything went black and he lost consciousness.

* * *

Sherlock rushed off the stage as soon as the curtain closed after the cast’s first bow, leaving his fellow actors flustered that he had only taken one curtain call. But Sherlock had far more important things on his mind. At one point during the play, John had disappeared from the audience. Between acts, Sherlock had sent Anthea to see if she could find him; he now sought her out. He found her on the way to his dressing room.

“Anthea, did you find him?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr Holmes,” she said, following him to his dressing room. “He wasn’t in his room, and they haven’t seen him at the front desk.”

Sherlock burst into his dressing room and started to pace. “Did he leave a message?”

Anthea shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock groaned. “What could have happened to him?” He grasped at his hair in frustration. “Think, think!”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the dressing room door. Sherlock’s head shot up as hope surged through him. He rushed to open the door, but was dismayed to find not John, but Mycroft stood in the doorway.

“Since when do you knock?” he spat.

“Since I was met with a very unsettling sight the last time I entered a room you were in unannounced,” Mycroft replied with a meaningful look at his brother. Sherlock felt himself blush.

Mycroft looked over at Anthea. “Thank you, Anthea,” he said. She curtsied and left the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving the brothers alone.

Sherlock walked over to his dressing table mirror and pretended to check his hair. He saw Mycroft’s reflection raise an eyebrow at him. “Your performance in act one, I must say, was somewhat eccentric.”

Sherlock spun around suddenly. “Where is he? What have you done to him?”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “I have done nothing, brother mine. Dr Watson has left, that is all. Gone from the hotel and your life.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock said, but he couldn’t keep the fear from creeping into the back of his mind, the little voice that told him that Mycroft was always right, that surely he must be right about this, too. “Why – why would he leave?”

Mycroft looked down, studying the handle of his umbrella, as he often did. “Presumably it was your…confession during act one that drove him away.” He looked up at Sherlock then, and his expression was cold. “Did you really think he would love you back? You, a silly, stupid, obnoxious little boy? He probably heard your little speech and fled.”

Sherlock gasped, Mycroft’s words feeling like a dagger to his chest. He furiously blinked back the tears that prickled at the corners of his eyes. Of course Mycroft was right, of course someone like John could never love someone like him. He had been stupid, so, so stupid! But then Sherlock remembered the time they had spent together. He remembered dancing with John, and how John had said that he had come a long way to meet Sherlock. He remembered John coming to his suite to ask him on a walk, and John worrying about him not eating. He remembered the day they had spent together – the laughing, the flirting, the hand-holding, John’s praise. He remembered how upset John had looked when he had said he was leaving London that night. He remembered John kissing him. He remembered the look on John’s face when he had come backstage after Sherlock had confessed his love to him. And suddenly, Sherlock knew that for once, Mycroft was wrong. John did love him.

Sherlock looked Mycroft straight in the eyes. “You’re wrong,” he said. “I love him, and he loves me. He would never leave me.” He had examined the evidence and come to the conclusion that it was impossible for John to have left of his own accord. Therefore, although it seemed so improbable, something must have happened to him. He tried to keep the rising panic out of his voice as he said, “I don’t know what has happened to him, but I will find him, Mycroft. Don’t you dare try to stop me.”

Mycroft’s face was a mixture of worry and resignation. “So be it,” he sighed. He turned to leave, but stopped, facing the door. “May I remind you that we leave within the hour?” Mycroft said, before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock dropped into his dressing table chair and stared into the mirror in despair. How was he possibly going to find John before he had to leave?

* * *

On the other side of the door, Mycroft leaned against the wall, for once allowing his expressionless mask to fall, despair showing on his face. The cruel words he had spoken to Sherlock rang in his ears. Surely his little brother would despise him now. It would have been worth it, if that was what it took to keep Sherlock safe from heartbreak. However, the worst part was that it hadn’t worked at all. His foolish brother refused to be warned away from John Watson. Mycroft could only hope that he could get Sherlock away from London before he found Watson, and that once they were gone, he could keep Sherlock busy enough that he would forget about this whole episode.

* * *

One hour later, Sherlock stood in John’s room. He had changed out of his costume and into his traveling clothes, and after instructing Anthea to pack his things for him, he had begun a frantic search of the hotel and the area surrounding the theatre. When nearly an hour had passed with no sign of John, Sherlock had to admit defeat. In one last desperate attempt, he returned to John’s hotel room, not expecting him to actually be there. Sure enough, there was no sign of him, other than his shaving kit sat on a table. Sherlock found himself drawn to it. He reached out a shaking hand and touched the razor, remembering how badly John had cut himself with it and how he had joked about growing a moustache. A tear spilled down Sherlock’s cheek, and he angrily wiped it away, before taking a shaky breath, composing himself, and leaving the room to join Mycroft and the rest of the company, where they were waiting for him to leave for Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, Mycroft is my favorite character, so it broke my heart a little to make him the antagonist of this story. I don't expect anyone to like him after reading this, but I hope you at least understand his motivations better.


	18. Rescue and Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone leaving comments and kudos! Enjoy the next chapter!

Sherlock lay wide-awake on the top bunk of the sleeper car. He had spent the past couple hours pretending to be asleep, but now he could hear the slow breaths coming from the bunk below him that indicated that Mycroft was finally asleep. Careful not to make any noise, Sherlock eased out of his bunk and grabbed the clothes he had left on top of his trunk when he had undressed earlier. He tiptoed out of the car and gently shut the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief. He headed to the lavatory, where he changed into his clothes and left his nightshirt on the floor, and then, double checking his pockets for the money he had stolen from Mycroft and stashed there, he went to wait by one of the train’s doors.

Sherlock didn’t have to wait long before the train stopped and he was able to disembark. Hurrying into the small station, he bought a ticket for the next train to London. _Don’t worry, John_ , he thought. _I’m coming back for you. I’ll find you._

* * *

John opened his eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision. His mind felt fuzzy, and it took him a few moments to remember what had happened. Mycroft had had him drugged, the bastard! He was bound and gagged and lying on an uncomfortable wooden floor. As John’s mind cleared further, he realized that he was still in the shed from last night, and that judging from the hint of light peeking between the slats in the walls and roof, it was almost morning.

John struggled into a sitting position, and then began to work frantically to free his hands from the ropes. _Please don’t let me be too late_ , he thought. _Please let Sherlock still be here_. He struggled for what seemed like a long time, but he finally had to give up, panting from exertion. The knots were expertly tied, and they were tight.

John was beginning to despair, but suddenly he heard a familiar voice calling, “JOHN?”

_Sherlock!_ John started grunting around the gag, knocking his shoes against the wall, doing anything he could to try to make enough noise to alert Sherlock to where he was.

The door to the shed burst open, and Sherlock ran inside. “John! Oh, John!” He knelt beside him and began untying the knots, releasing John first from the gag and then from the ropes. As soon as Sherlock had freed him and helped him to his feet, John threw his arms around him and held him tight, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. Sherlock hugged him back, murmuring into his hair, “Are you alright?”

“Now I am.” John pulled back from the hug just enough to plant a firm, brief kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I was worried you had left in the night and I had lost you.”

“Never,” Sherlock declared solemnly. “I swear I will always be there for you. I will never leave you.”

Ignoring the lump in his throat, John lunged forward and kissed Sherlock again, deeper this time. And this time, Sherlock didn’t hesitate, but kissed back with enthusiasm. When they pulled back from the kiss, they stared into each other’s eyes lovingly, still caressing each other’s cheeks. “Shall we go back to the hotel?” John whispered. Sherlock nodded, and, their arms still around each other, they walked through the park in the cool dawn, a gorgeous sunrise to their left guiding their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so short, but at least it ends on a much happier note than the last one, right? :) And I promise a much longer chapter next week!


	19. Becoming One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I am grateful for these two adorable idiots for giving me something to obsess over, for Katie for being a wonderful beta, and for all of you for reading this story!
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains sex.
> 
> UPDATE: I forgot to mention when I posted this earlier that this is the last fully-happy chapter. The first half of the next chapter is very happy, and I will let you know when to stop reading if you want to read half the chapter and then stop before it gets sad, but if you want to be extra careful, you should stop reading after this chapter.

John and Sherlock crossed the lobby hand-in-hand. “Second floor,” Sherlock told the elevator attendant as they stepped inside. John shot him a quizzical look and opened his mouth to remind Sherlock that his room was on the fourth floor, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. He leaned down to whisper in John’s ear, “No one will have checked into my old room yet, and I can easily get us in. We’ll go there; it’s nicer than your room.”

John shook his head and chuckled softly at Sherlock’s high standards as the elevator stopped and the attendant pulled open the grate for them. Sherlock rushed out of the elevator, pulling John with him, and headed down the hall at such a brisk pace that John almost had to jog to keep up. He stopped abruptly in front of room 221B and started trying to pick the lock, which was when John noticed how badly his hands were shaking. “Hey, it’s okay.” He rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock shook his head, his cheeks colouring slightly. “No, I want to.” His voice sounded frustrated. “I don’t know why my hands aren’t behaving.”

“You’re just nervous,” John said gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He took the lock pick from Sherlock. “Here, let me try. You talk me through how to do it.”

It took several tries, but eventually John managed to get the door unlocked. As the door swung open, he turned to look at Sherlock, who took a deep breath before stepping through the doorway. John followed after him. Sherlock walked into the centre of the room, before he turned around to face John, a small smile on his beautiful lips. He slowly eased out of his suit jacket and let it fall to the floor, looking at John bashfully through his lashes. John gently eased the door shut behind him and moved slowly towards Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around him and kissed him deeply, and he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around his shoulders as he kissed back. John worked one hand up into Sherlock’s hair, gently tugging on a curl, and Sherlock broke off the kiss with a gasp. “ _John_ ,” he breathed.

John took that as his cue to move things along. He led Sherlock over to the canopied bed and sat him down on the edge of it. He kissed his forehead, then kissed down his face, between his eyes and to the tip of his nose. He gave Sherlock’s lips extra attention, slipping his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth and nibbling on his lips a little, while simultaneously freeing Sherlock from his necktie, before continuing down, kissing under his jaw and down his now-exposed neck. Sherlock groaned, and John was surprised by how arousing he found the sound.

John knelt before Sherlock and carefully unbuttoned his waistcoat, easing it off of him. Sherlock just sat staring down at him with big eyes, breathing hard. John hoped he wasn’t becoming overwhelmed. He stood and kissed Sherlock gently. “You okay?” he asked.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded frantically. “Yes, John, please.”

John smiled at him lovingly, then pecked at his lips once again before crouching down before Sherlock again. He eased Sherlock’s braces off his arms, and then his hands went to the top button of Sherlock’s shirt. He worked his way down, unbuttoning the shirt and kissing the smooth, pale chest that was revealed beneath it.

John could feel Sherlock trembling now. He looked up at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? We really don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly more indignant than nervous. “How many times do I have to tell you? Of course I want this!” He threw off his shirt and pulled John up for a kiss.

John huffed out a laugh as Sherlock released him. “Okay, okay.”

Sherlock reached out his still-shaking hands and fumbled over the buttons on John’s waistcoat, clearly trying to undo them. John laughed again. “Here, let me.” He stripped out of all his clothes, throwing them carelessly on the floor, while Sherlock watched with wide eyes.

“John,” he breathed when John was stood before him, totally naked. “You’re huge.”

“You’re beautiful,” was John’s reply, causing Sherlock to blush. He knelt in front of Sherlock once again and pulled off his shoes and socks, kissing each of Sherlock’s toes before standing. He then leaned over and experimentally licked one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock let out a loud moan. “Let’s get you out of these trousers, alright?” John whispered.

“John. Yes. Yes,” Sherlock panted. He lifted his hips off the bed, allowing John to get both his trousers and drawers off of him.

John stood back to admire the vision that was Sherlock, now completely undressed. Sherlock blushed a deeper red and moved as if to cover himself, but John reached out and stopped him. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated. He sat down on the bed beside Sherlock and reached around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another long kiss. Sherlock responded with enthusiasm, his hands coming up to feel the muscles of John’s arms and chest. John’s own hands wandered over Sherlock’s body as he revelled in the feel of soft, silky skin. By the time they finally broke apart, they were both panting. John took Sherlock’s hand in his own and looked into his eyes. “What exactly do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands and mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that?” John asked, ducking his head and trying to catch Sherlock’s eye.

“I said I want you inside me.” Sherlock was still refusing to meet John’s eyes.

John raised Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to look at him. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.” He kissed Sherlock first on his bright red cheek and then on his lips. “I want that too.” Sherlock gave him a small smile.

John pulled his legs up onto the bed so that he was knelt facing Sherlock, and Sherlock followed his lead, turning to face John with the head of the bed at his back and stretching out his legs in front of him. John slowly leaned over Sherlock, gently easing him back so that his head hit the pillow, his dark curls a stark contrast to the white bedding. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s back. He stared up at John, his expression open and vulnerable, but also trusting. John felt his heart clench with the intensity of his love for Sherlock. He leaned down and kissed him, and Sherlock immediately pulled him closer, wrapping both his arms and his legs around him, his hands glossing over John’s back.

John was so immersed in the pleasure of lying in Sherlock’s embrace, their lips and bodies pressed tightly together, that it took him a while to realize there was a problem. He pulled back slightly with a murmured, “Shit.”

Sherlock immediately looked panicked. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” John soothed him, running a hand over his cheek. “You’ve done everything perfectly. But I just realized that we have nothing to use as lubricant.” Come to think of it, John didn’t even know what people used for lube in 1912. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. There are other ways…”

“Oh, umm,” Sherlock cut him off. He looked embarrassed. “There’s a jar of Vaseline under the bed. I stole it from Mycroft and hid it there prior to the play, you know, just in case.” He shifted uncomfortably.

John grinned. “Oh, so you were counting on this, were you? And I guess that’s the real reason you wanted to come here instead of going to my room, isn’t it? Clever thing.” He kissed Sherlock’s blushing cheek, then paused. “Hang on. You stole it from _Mycroft_? What did _he_ need it for?!”

“Oh my God!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Don’t think about that! You’ll spoil the mood!”

John laughed, kissed Sherlock again, and then leaned over the edge of the bed to peer underneath. Sure enough, there was a jar of Vaseline hidden just far enough into the shadows that John wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t known to look for it. He grasped it triumphantly and sat back up, looking down at Sherlock tenderly.

“Are you ready?” John asked. When Sherlock nodded in response, he gently moved Sherlock’s legs farther apart and knelt between them. He opened the jar of Vaseline and dipped his index finger in it, covering it thoroughly. He then kissed each of Sherlock’s knees, before pushing them up to his chest. He stuck a pillow under Sherlock’s hips, then he reached down and felt between Sherlock’s plush arse cheeks, finding his opening and gently rubbing over the tight pucker. Sherlock gasped. “Is this okay?” John asked him.

Sherlock nodded frantically. “Yes. Please, John, more!” He pushed back against John’s finger, and John pushed in to the first knuckle. Sherlock let out a breathy, “ _Oh,_ ” and John felt him clench around his finger.

“Relax,” John whispered. He put his free hand on Sherlock’s hip and caressed his sharp hipbone with his thumb. Gradually, he felt Sherlock’s muscles relax around him, and he slowly pushed farther in, giving Sherlock time to adjust to the new sensation. Once his finger was fully in, he started working it in and out of Sherlock until Sherlock was writhing, moaning, and asking for more. John removed his finger, slicked up a second one, and pushed two fingers back in. He scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock further, and before long Sherlock was ready for a third finger. Sherlock was moaning constantly now, and when John brushed his fingers over his prostate, he cried out loudly.

“John,” he panted. “I want…I want…”

John stilled his fingers and kissed Sherlock’s ankle. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I want you,” Sherlock gasped out. “Now. I’m ready.”

John pulled his fingers out of Sherlock, coated his hand in Vaseline, and slicked up his cock, before wiping his hand off on the sheets. He felt a brief twinge of guilt at the idea of not using a condom, but he was clean and he knew Sherlock must be as well, so he decided it was okay.

John pulled Sherlock’s legs down and knelt between them, before leaning over Sherlock once more. “Wrap your legs around me,” John instructed, and Sherlock complied, crossing his ankles over John’s lower back. John brushed a hand over Sherlock’s cheek and kissed his lips. “I love you,” John whispered.

“I love you,” Sherlock choked back.

John lined himself up and pushed into Sherlock’s body. There was still some resistance, so John took his time, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock the whole time. It was easily the most intense experience John had ever had, staring into the depths of his love’s beautiful eyes as he eased inside of him, their bodies connecting and becoming one. He felt so in love in that moment that his heart hurt. When he finally bottomed out, a single tear trickled down Sherlock’s flushed cheek. John wiped it away with his thumb and kissed Sherlock. “You okay?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “It’s just so good. I didn’t know anything could be this good.”

“I know,” John said. “It’s never been this good for me, either.”

Sherlock shifted his hips experimentally and let out a yelp of surprise at the feeling of John’s cock moving inside of him. “Oh, John, please move.”

“My pleasure.” John began to pump in and out of Sherlock, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

Soon Sherlock was clutching at John and moaning again, or else chanting, “John, John, John,” in time with John’s thrusts. John was close, but he wanted Sherlock to come first. He changed his angle so that he could hit Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock let out a loud wail. It took only a few more hard thrusts into Sherlock’s prostate before Sherlock was coming between them, screaming John’s name into his neck. The feeling of Sherlock pulsating around him was all it took to send John over the edge, and his vision went white as he experienced the most intense orgasm of his entire life.

When he came back to his senses, he found he was laying on top of Sherlock, who gave him a droopy-eyed, sleepy smile. John quickly rolled off of him and moved Sherlock’s limp body so that his head could rest on John’s chest, tucked neatly underneath his chin. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s torso, murmured, “I love you, John,” and promptly fell asleep.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and smiled down at his sleeping form. He dropped a kiss to his head and whispered, “I love you, too, Sherlock.” Then, warm and content, with Sherlock in his arms, he too drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate!
> 
> Reminder to anyone who wants a happy ending that you may want to stop reading now (although the first half of the next chapter is still happy).


	20. The Future: Planned and Unplanned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments last week! It's wonderful to know that people are still reading and enjoying this story.
> 
> Now for the bad news: this is the chapter where it gets sad. If anyone wants to leave it on a happy note, I'd advise you to stop reading at "They returned to their breakfast, and the conversation moved to other topics," which is a little more than half-way through the chapter. I totally understand if you want to stop reading here, although I hope at least some of you will stick with me until the end.

John awoke to sunlight streaming in through the windows and feeling happier than he had ever felt in his life. It took him a moment to remember why he felt so happy, but then he remembered everything that had happened in the past 24 hours. He gazed fondly down at Sherlock, who was still sleeping peacefully in his arms, and just thought about how much he loved him. He was more in love than he had previously thought possible.

His musings were soon interrupted, however, when his stomach gave a loud grumble. Chuckling softly to himself, John carefully extricated himself from Sherlock’s long limbs and got out of bed. He dressed, but after a moment’s thought, left his jacket where it lay on the floor, so that if Sherlock woke up, he would know John was coming back. Then he headed downstairs in search of breakfast.

When John returned to room 221B, Sherlock was awake and pacing, wrapped only in a bed sheet. He rounded on John as he entered the room. “Where did you go?”

“Just downstairs to get us some breakfast.” John crossed the room and kissed the frown off Sherlock’s face. “I’m sorry if I worried you, love.”

Sherlock blushed at the endearment, but still managed a haughty, “I wasn’t worried.”

“Mm-hm,” John hummed, unconvinced. He dragged Sherlock over to the rug in the centre of the room and pulled him down to sit on the floor. “Will you eat with me?” he asked, setting out the food he had bought between them.

“I suppose I could manage to eat something,” Sherlock said. He picked lightly at his food while John dug in.

John had just taken a sip of tea when Sherlock said, out of the blue, “You will marry me, won’t you?”

John choked on his tea, coughed, and started laughing.

“You won’t?!” Sherlock exclaimed, sounding outraged.

“No, of course I will.” John hastily pulled himself together. “Sorry, I was just laughing at the way you asked. Of course I’ll marry you, Sherlock. I’d be honoured.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “For one moment there I thought you had a wife and child back home somewhere.”

John laughed. “No, definitely not! No wife and child for me! You’re all I want. You’re everything to me, Sherlock. Everything and more.” He reached out and caressed Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock had tears in his eyes. “You’re everything to me, too, John.”

They moved in simultaneously and kissed each other. Sherlock tasted of tea and sweetness.

When they broke apart, Sherlock suddenly kicked into a new gear, planning their future together, talking a mile a minute. “I’ll leave Mycroft’s company for good, and we’ll get a little flat together in London, someplace nice and central where there will be plenty of excitement. You can set up a medical practice, and I’ll be a detective! We’ll solve crimes together and have all kinds of exciting adventures and never be bored. We’ll get married and be together always.”

John watched Sherlock talking animatedly, feeling more besotted by the moment. “It sounds like a dream,” he said when Sherlock stopped for breath. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiled at him, looking as head-over-heels as John felt. “I love you, too.”

They returned to their breakfast, and the conversation moved to other topics.

“You don’t actually smoke this,” said Sherlock, picking up the pipe that was lying on the floor, having fallen out of John’s jacket pocket when the jacket was unceremoniously thrown to the ground the night before. “You just carry it around to make people think you do. Why?”

“Oh…um…” John tried and failed to quickly come up with a lie.

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t seem to actually care about the explanation, as he continued on as if he hadn’t asked John a question in the first place. “I’ve always wanted to try smoking a pipe, but Mycroft won’t let me. May I?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” John knew, as a doctor, that Sherlock starting to smoke was a very bad idea, but he didn’t know how to say this without drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the fact that he carried around a pipe he didn’t smoke.

Sherlock held out the pipe to John. “Light it for me.”

John let out a half-exasperated sigh at the demanding tone in his voice, but went to do as he asked, digging around in his pocket for a match. His hand closed around a small, round object, and he drew it out without thinking, glancing carelessly at the coin in his hand. A feeling of horror came over him as he noticed the year on the coin: 1979.

“John?” His horror must have shown on his face, because Sherlock sounded concerned. But John could not respond, as he suddenly felt as if he were being pulled back through a tunnel. At the other end of the tunnel, he could see Sherlock, screaming his name, “John! Joooohn!” John tried to get back to him, reaching out towards the love of his life, but it was too late. He had already slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry :( Blame the creators of "Somewhere in Time" haha.


	21. Separation and Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading, commenting, and leaving kudos.

The first thing John noticed when he regained consciousness was the sound of a radio announcer droning on. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on a carpeted floor in an unfamiliar hotel room. He slowly sat up, feeling nauseous and feverish, and found, to his horror, that the décor in the room was unmistakably modern. From outside, he could hear the sounds of car horns blaring. John thought he might be sick.

“No,” John choked out. He had to get back. He had to get back to Sherlock. Grasping the back of a couch, he pulled himself to his feet. The moment he put weight on his right leg, a sharp pain shot through it. John ignored it and half limped, half stumbled his way out of the modern 221B and back to his old room.

John threw himself onto his old bed and desperately tried to hypnotize himself again. “It’s 29th June 1912, it’s 29th June 1912,” he chanted to himself over and over again through his tears. “Oh, God, please. I’m back. I’m back. God.”

But it was only a matter of time before John had to admit to himself that it wasn’t working. He would never be able to go back to 1912. For the first time in years, John sobbed. He sobbed for himself and the love he had lost, for his unfulfilled dreams and the perfect life he would never have. But mostly, he sobbed for Sherlock, his Sherlock. His brilliant, beautiful, youthful, rebellious, joyous, _perfect_ Sherlock, whom he had now abandoned to a long life of loneliness and drug addiction.

* * *

1912

Mycroft anxiously hurried down the hallway of the Baker Street Hotel. He had woken that morning to find Sherlock missing, and suspecting where he had gone, had immediately transferred trains to return to London. He could only hope that he was in time to find his little brother before the boy did something truly foolish.

Heart pounding, he burst into room 221B. One glance around the room told him everything he needed to know: Sherlock had reunited with John Watson, who had gotten his way with his baby brother before disappearing. Mycroft’s blood began to boil. “Oh, Sherlock,” he sighed. “What have you done?”

Sherlock looked up at him from where he was sat on the floor, wrapped in a bed sheet and clutching a pipe, face covered in tears. “John’s gone,” he choked out. Mycroft’s anger must have shown on his face, because Sherlock quickly added, “But he didn’t want to leave! We were going to get married! We were so h-happy!” His breath started to hitch. “And th-then he j-just disappeared!” Sherlock began to cry in earnest, his too-thin body wracked with violent sobs.

Mycroft sighed again, before crossing the room in a few long strides, sitting on the floor next to his little brother, and pulling him into his arms. Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder and continued to sob as Mycroft gently carded his fingers through his brother’s hair. “Shh,” he soothed. “It will be okay. We’ll move past this. Soon this whole incident will be a thing of the past, you’ll see.”

“N-No it won’t!” Sherlock insisted, somehow managing to sound petulant even as he clung to his brother and sobbed into his shoulder. “J-John can never come b-back a-and it will n-never be okay again! I-I’ll n-never forget h-him!”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say to this. He felt completely out of his depth, at a loss as to how to comfort his distraught little brother. So he simply continued to hold Sherlock and rock him gently, fearing for what the future would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I hope Mycroft has redeemed himself a bit at least.
> 
> See you next week for the final chapter!


	22. See You on the Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! This chapter title was originally supposed to be a reference to a song by the Wizard Rock band "The Ministry of Magic," but I realized that it's also a line from "Hamilton." So it's a reference to both.
> 
> Warnings for depression and suicide in this chapter. I also feel I should say that I have never been chronically depressed or suicidal myself, so while I tried to make it as accurate as possible, I apologize if my portrayal is inaccurate or in any way offensive to anyone.

1980

John’s days dragged by in an empty blur. Before meeting Sherlock, he had never noticed how dull and grey his life was, but now, without his beautiful ray of sunshine, it was like all the colour had gone out of the world. Despite the pain that inexplicably remained in his leg, John walked by the lake where he and Sherlock had met; instead of the beautiful setting it had created that evening, the shore was barren and cold. He sat on the steps of St. Paul’s, where Sherlock had first told him about his dream of becoming a detective; now, the steps were littered with rubbish. Even the Hall of History seemed darker, although Sherlock’s portrait still glowed bright. John stared at it for a long time, remembering the night it was taken, before approaching it, reaching out towards it as if to caress Sherlock’s cheek, and finally leaning into it, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder in the closest thing to an embrace possible.

* * *

As the days passed, John fell deeper into a depression. He tried drinking away the pain, ordering scotch after scotch at the hotel bar until the bartender cut him off, but after waking up with the worst hangover of his life, with a throbbing pain in his head to match the one in his leg, he gave up on that. Instead, he took to sitting in his room, staring at the wall, unmoving. He had no desire to do anything else anymore. Sherlock had given his life more meaning than he had ever known before, and now, without him, John’s life seemed pointless. He wasn’t sure it was even worth living anymore.

A knock on the door startled John from his dark thoughts. “Mr Watson?” a woman’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Are you okay, dear? The maid says you’ve been in there for days.”

John registered vague surprise at the amount of time he had been sitting there for, but otherwise he ignored her.

“Okay, dear. I’m coming in,” the voice said. John heard a key turn in the lock, and the woman hurried into his room. It was Mrs Hudson. John glanced at her and was immediately flooded with memories of her as a little girl, of her criminal father, and of the case he and Sherlock had solved together. Blinking back tears, John turned away from Mrs Hudson and back toward the wall.

“Oh, dear,” tutted Mrs Hudson. “You look awful. When was the last time you ate?” She felt his forehead as if checking for a fever, then hoisted him up out of his chair. John let her manhandle him over to the bed and lay him down. “Now you just rest here,” she said. “I’m going to go get you some tea and a bite to eat. I’ll be back soon.” And with one last worried look at John, Mrs Hudson left the room.

John stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes before coming to a decision. He didn’t want to live anymore, that much was certain. Not without Sherlock. But when Mrs Hudson got back, she would likely hover over him – she seemed the type – and he would have no chance to get away. If he was going to escape his empty life, he had to do it now.

John had no weapon and no time or energy to come up with a clever way to end his life. He briefly considered just throwing himself from the window, but his room was only on the third floor – not necessarily high enough for the impact to kill him. But if he went higher…

John threw himself out of bed and hurried out of his room as quickly as his limp would allow. He got in the elevator and rode all the way up, until he reached the top floor, then took the stairs to the roof.

Within moments, John stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at the busy London street below. He felt no fear, only relief. “I’m coming back to you, Sherlock,” he whispered. Then John spread his arms wide and flung himself from the roof. It was a dramatic fall; Sherlock would appreciate that.

John saw the pavement coming up to meet him, but before he hit it, his vision went white. Sherlock appeared out of the white fog, looking young, beautiful, and vibrant in his suit from the play. He held out his hand to John, and John took it. Then, feeling content and secure, hand-in-hand with his love once more, he allowed Sherlock to lead him to the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! I was nervous at first about posting this fic, but you all have made it an absolute pleasure. I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read this story and leaving lovely comments. And Katie, thank you so much for all your help.
> 
> Now I have an idea to float by you: I am going to really miss this universe, and I received a couple comments last week saying the same thing, so I am now considering writing some "missing scene" one-shots to go along with this story. I want to be clear: I am a slow writer, and I need to feel inspired by the idea to enjoy writing, so I can't make any promises. However, if anyone has ideas for missing scenes in this universe you would like to see written, please feel free to let me know, and I may write them (but again, no promises).
> 
> If anyone would like to keep in touch on tumblr, you can find me at gobletcharm74.tumblr.com.
> 
> And finally, I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season!


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